The Longer the Thread

by Emma Lathen

  Another spat ensued. Not unexpectedly, its message was that special knowledge of the garment industry was essential for Slax’s banker in San Juan. By the time it ended, Innes was shedding his lofty detachment and becoming downright partisan.

  “Now, look here, Finch,” he said in the tones which had taken him through so many customs barriers, “that’s all very well and good. But aren’t you overlooking something? This isn’t just a question of perma-press fabrics. So far we’ve had sabotage and kidnapping. Are you still claiming that Slax might just as well be somewhere on Seventh Avenue?”

  Stoutly Finch maintained that sabotage and kidnapping were not unknown in America. He even implied that they were merely two more of the day-to-day hazards of doing business in New York.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Withers. “I didn’t know that things were that bad.”

  “He’s exaggerating a little, Brad,” Thatcher said.

  “American industry,” Finch continued tenaciously, “deals with unions, race relations and corrupt officials. Before ever setting foot in Bayamón, Slax integrated a production line in Georgia and hammered out a contract with the teamsters. What more do you want?”

  Thatcher disapproved of strong-arm tactics at in-house conferences. “Unfortunately,” he said dryly, “the man who accomplished these miracles is Harry Zimmerman.”

  Innes picked up the cue promptly. “Yes, and Slax may have to do without him permanently. What about the management that’s left in Puerto Rico?”

  “We’re talking about our investments in Puerto Rico generally, not just Slax,” Finch replied warily.

  “Ah ha! Then things don’t look so rosy if Slax has to handle its problems in San Juan without Zimmerman.”

  Finch capitulated. “Pete tells me they might have to abandon the Puerto Rico operation. Slax will retreat to its plants in New Jersey and Georgia.”

  “And what about their plant in Bayamón?”

  “They’ll sell it off at distress prices.”

  “A plant that Commercial Credit helped finance,” Innes said pointedly.

  The terrier turned into a bulldog before their eyes. Forgotten were momentary dissensions. “Commercial Credit,” said Finch in a voice of steel, “intends to get its money back. No matter what happens to Harry Zimmerman.”

  Thatcher had to approve of this goal. It was in the best tradition of the Sloan Guaranty Trust. Nevertheless, like Annie Galiano, he wished there were something somebody could do for Harry Zimmerman.

  “It’s a shame,” he mused aloud, “that the radicals aren’t a bigger political party. Then, with the plebiscite coming up, they might be willing to bargain for Zimmerman’s freedom. As it is, they have nothing to gain and nothing to lose by negotiating about Zimmerman. They’re a splinter group without any real power, except to create incidents. Nothing will change that.”

  Brad Withers waxed indignant. “Do you mean, John, that all this is for nothing? A bunch of guerillas blows things up just before an election, the government rushes around with all sorts of emergency decrees—I understand they’re even searching people at the airport—there are meetings in Washington, the Coast Guard is patrolling the Caribbean, and nothing important is involved, except the safety of this poor man? Otherwise the only change is that they’ll force a factory to be sold off? I would simply refuse to deal with these people.”

  Given the source, it was a reasonable attitude. Brad Withers, protected by money, position and privilege, often resorted to the stance he was advocating.

  It was not easy to change his mind. Brad admitted that Harry Zimmerman should not simply be abandoned to his fate. He was the first to deplore insensate destruction of property.

  “Fires do a lot of damage,” he said almost intelligently. “Have I told you, John, about the trouble Thornet had when his place in Connecticut burned down? But what does all this have to do with the political situation? Why don’t the police just round up whoever’s responsible? They’ve got laws against this sort of thing, don’t they?”

  “The police are trying.” Thatcher was not going to make a fool of himself explaining that airport searches and Coast Guard patrols were merely an attempt to achieve this end. “After all, Brad, it isn’t easy to capture criminals like this, even in New York.”

  “It’s not the same.” Withers had a clear view of the difference between Puerto Rico and Manhattan, and he struggled to put it into words. “You expect trouble here. But there—well, you don’t. Not with those beautiful white sands and the water, that crystal-clear water . . .”

  But reality on the beaches of the Caribbean was a far cry from Brad Withers’ dream world.

  When Thatcher entered his office next morning, it was to find Miss Corsa, phone in hand, saying, “Yes, yes, I realize it’s an emergency, operator. I’ll have Mr. Thatcher return the call as soon as he comes in. If you’ll just leave your—Oh, here he is now. Just a moment, please.”

  Muffling the receiver, she hissed, “A long-distance call from San Juan, Mr. Thatcher. The operator says it’s an emergency.”

  A chill sense of foreboding descended on Thatcher as he strode into his own office and snatched up the receiver.

  “John? Thank God I got you.”

  It was Pete Olmsted and he sounded drunk. Automatically Thatcher checked his watch. Nine-thirty in Manhattan and hence ten-thirty in Puerto Rico. It did not seem likely.

  “Yes, Pete?” He tried to keep impatience out of his voice.

  “It was Humble’s idea. He talked me into taking a dip before breakfast.”

  So far, it did not sound ominous.

  “But the beach in front of the hotel isn’t good enough for Humble. No, he has to have some special beach, miles from anywhere, a beach no one else has discovered.” Olmsted choked. “Well, never mind that, so we went there together this morning.”

  “And?”

  “It was quiet, all right, quiet as a tomb.” Olmsted caught what sounded like the beginning of a high-pitched giggle and steadied his voice. “I went right into the water. I didn’t realize Humble wasn’t behind me. He thought there was someone lying over by some rocks. He went to take a look. I was diving through the breakers. At first I didn’t even hear him yelling.”

  Thatcher attempted the impossible feat of breathing reassurance over a long-distance line as if he were giving artificial respiration.

  “Take it easy, Pete,” he said very slowly.

  “Oh, God, it was Harry Zimmerman, John!” The announcement turned into a howl as recollection broke over Olmsted. “It was what was left of him. And, John, they cut his throat first!”

  Chapter 17.

  Fly Front

  The nightmare of that early-morning discovery sent Dudley Humble into shock and ravaged Pete Olmsted’s sleeping hours for weeks to come. It also reshaped the form of government action against the radicals.

  For public opinion in Puerto Rico had not firmed; it had set like concrete. The initial outrage at the kidnapping trebled with the final atrocity. Every newspaper on the island carried two pictures on its front page. One was a publicity still of Harry Zimmerman taken for the opening of the Bayamón plant. The other was a stark photograph of the shrouded stretcher being loaded into an ambulance for the grim journey to a police laboratory. The publicity shot was appallingly good. It hinted at shortcomings as well as virtues. It showed a man, happy at a moment of achievement, who was probably blunt and insensitive, who was probably kind, responsible and hard-working. Far too many people could identify with that man, could recognize a husband or a son, could visualize the moments when he had been kidnapped, when he had been murdered.

  The Administration was not slow to get the message. When there was still hope of recovering the victim alive, the proper tactics included sudden descents, swift arrests, comprehensive searches. But now the government would have to prove its efficiency in a different way. There would have to be an arrest; there would have to be evidence; there would have to be a trial. Insensibly, the burden of crisis shi
fted from armed soldiers to trained policemen.

  Relations between the police and students at the university had been tense all year. Only last winter a pitched battle between students had cost the life of the head of the riot squad. Before the violence was over, hundreds had been wounded. But, as Annie Galiano had foreseen, things were different now. Many voices had been stilled. There was no youthful professor saying, “The riot was caused by police brutality.” There was no trooper saying, “If they shoot at us, we’re going to shoot back.” The closing of the university was accepted without protest.

  Even the residents of the commune that was Prudencio Nadal’s formal address were finding it difficult to rationalize Harry Zimmerman’s murder.

  “The American industrialist was not a victim of the Radical Independents,” a girl with long dark hair stammered to the two policemen standing in the living room. “He was a victim of the repressive forces operating in our country and—”

  “Who cut his throat?” demanded the sergeant.

  The girl subsided unhappily.

  “A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Prudencio Nadal,” the officer continued. “It is your duty to assist us in finding him.”

  This sparked an automatic response from a young man currently attending the law school. “A fair trial is impossible in the courts of the commonwealth. They are institutions imposed on the people of Puerto Rico by an imperialistic occupying power. As such, they have no legitimate authority. The only tribunal before which Prudencio Nadal is accountable is the hearts of his countrymen!”

  “If his countrymen get their hands on him before we do, Nadal will be lynched!”

  This was so true that it caused a blanket of silence to descend. Finally the girl took up the cudgels again.

  “This is what happens when the establishment learns to fear a radical. First they try to muzzle him. When he refuses to be silenced, they seek to discredit him. These charges are false. The evidence has been manufactured.” She was growing more vehement with each phrase. “Have you not heard that the editor of El Mundo received a letter from Prudencio disclaiming any responsibility for this American’s death?”

  “When it was clear that the people of Puerto Rico were revolted by his tactics. What about the first letter, in which he was proud of everything he was doing?”

  The girl was beginning to find her stride. “Lies! All lies!” she said immediately.

  “I suppose he wasn’t even responsible for the fire?” The sergeant was sarcastic.

  “No, he wasn’t. We have told you that before. We were all in front of El Convento until news of the fire came to us. Then we all went across on the ferry to watch. Prudencio himself saw what you would try to do. He said it would all be blamed on him. That was when he and Antonia left. He knew you would seize on anything, an accidental fire even, to throw him into prison!”

  The sergeant’s gaze was thoughtful, and his voice was soft. “So, you are going to provide Nadal with an alibi. How considerate. And, of course, you alibi yourself at the same time. And the fire was just an accident, in spite of gallons of kerosene. What about Zimmerman? Another unfortunate accident?”

  “I know nothing of Zimmerman. I have never seen him!”

  “How do you know? Perhaps he was at one of your meetings. Perhaps you should come to the mortuary to make sure?”

  The girl went white and took an involuntary step backward.

  “No, I won’t!” she cried.

  “Ah, you do not wish to look upon your victims?”

  “It was an accident,” she gasped.

  “Tell me about that accident,” the sergeant purred.

  “I know nothing about it,” she said wildly, before she could control herself. She was sullen when she continued. “I meant that it must have been an accident. That is the only explanation. But I know nothing that would help you.”

  “You don’t know much, do you?” The sergeant’s contempt flayed her. “I waste my time asking you where Nadal is. You don’t know that either.”

  This was too close to the bone. The three young people all looked affronted. They were the residue of the radical group that had inhabited the commune. After the warehouse fire half the members had fled. A sweeping raid by the police, hard on the heels of the Governor’s speech, had removed many of the rest. Those left were the clerical force. They typed the letters which others dictated. They hired lecture halls. They distributed posters. The police regarded them as too insignificant to be worthy of notice.

  The law student tried to bluster. “It is unnecessary that we know where Prudencio is. You will never find him. You fool yourselves if you think we are his only comrades. He is the voice of the common man, he is the common man!” he declaimed. “Prudencio Nadal has only to seek sanctuary with the workers of Puerto Rico!”

  The sergeant’s eyes were flat and hard as he rose.

  “Even a student,” he said, “should know better than that.”

  No one approved the new look in government countermeasures more than Captain Vallejo. Armed soldiers were all very well for putting down riots, for aborting revolutions, even for mass roundups of terrorists. They were still proving their usefulness. At this very moment, they were making exit from Puerto Rico a cumbersome, lengthy process. Passengers for airplanes and ships were scrutinized. Freighters were searched from stem to stern before weighing anchor. The coastline was being patrolled. Cruise ships had been advised to forgo their stop in San Juan. But, in the last analysis, murder was the business of trained policemen. And the murder of Harry Zimmerman was peculiarly the business of Captain Vallejo.

  Gone was any temptation to sneer at the troubles of Slax. In the privacy of his own soul, Captain Vallejo had offered up a little apology to Harry Zimmerman, then determined to make amends in his own way. Without undue pride, he had scrapped every preconception he had ever had about what was going on in Bayamón. He was starting from the beginning.

  “You’re asking me about Domínguez again?” Cesar Romero stared at him.

  “This whole situation has centered around Slax from the beginning. Domínguez was murdered not two doors from where we’re sitting. Before that, there was sabotage. After that, there was arson and murder. There must be some connection.”

  Romero was very tired. But he forced himself to think. “I thought you were convinced that Domínguez was murdered by someone in our management, Captain.”

  “I tended to that conclusion, I admit.” Vallejo frowned. “But now I am not convinced of anything.”

  “Probably that should be a relief. But I am merely confused these days.”

  Captain Vallejo became more conciliatory as he tried to enlist some assistance. “You understand, we have been active ever since Domínguez was killed. We have questioned his family, his friends, his associates. Never was there the slightest suggestion of any political interests. It stands to reason that he must have been paid for what he did.”

  “I could have told you that Benito Domínguez was not the dedicated type.”

  “I am in accord. And that brings me to an inescapable conclusion. He would be a great help to me if he were still alive. A man like that would have told all he knew, at once. The name of his employer would already be part of our evidence.”

  Romero failed to see that this was important. “Surely there are other sources of information. What about the students in Nadal’s organization? They are not all missing, are they?”

  “They say they never heard of Domínguez.” Vallejo raised a hand at Romero’s sound of disbelief. “No, I am inclined to believe them. You understand, many of them are shocked by this atrocity. I think whoever hired Domínguez was very secretive about it.”

  Through his weariness, Cesar Romero began to sense a certain reticence in the Captain’s phrasing. “The problem is evidence, is it not? Surely you don’t doubt that Nadal hired him.”

  “You cannot deny someone has been active at Slax in behalf of the Radical Independents—since Domínguez’ death. Someone knew that th
e warehouse was supposed to contain an unusual amount of finished goods. Someone must have located Mr. Zimmerman. I think there may be a missing link.”

  “You have been investigating our workers very thoroughly, Captain,” Romero said cautiously. “Is that what you mean?”

  Vallejo shot down this conjecture instantly. “Your people have been investigated back to the day they were born. I would go on oath that not one of them has the slightest sympathy with the Radical Independents.”

  Cesar Romero could not pretend to be surprised. It was axiomatic that Prudencio Nadal had been unable to attract the workers. Cesar knew that Vallejo wanted him to pursue the point to its logical conclusion, but today he was not prepared to indulge anyone. He shifted to an earlier remark.

  “What did you mean about someone locating Harry, Captain?”

  Vallejo was too experienced to show his chagrin. Now his mission was to make an ally of Romero. With good grace, he answered, “If you are going to kidnap a man, you must first know where he is. We have very little information about Mr. Zimmerman’s movements on the day of the fire. But our radio appeal has produced several taxi drivers. We know that he was at the plant in Bayamón, at the docks in Cataño, at the offices of the Sloan. And what is very interesting is something he said to Mr. Olmsted. At that time he was going to clear up some mess once and for all. That is why he canceled his appointment with Mr. Thatcher. Now, tell me, what problem was so big, so pressing, that Mr. Zimmerman would put off his bankers to deal with it?”

  Cesar Romero disliked being jockeyed into rote answers. “I suppose there could have been a good many problems,” he said stiffly.

  “Come, come. You don’t mean that. Oh, granted, there might be more than one problem. But do you not think it conceivable that Mr. Zimmerman thought he could settle his troubles with the radical students by a face-to-face confrontation with Prudencio Nadal?”