The Longer the Thread

by Emma Lathen

  Romero examined the idea. He would have liked to find a flaw. But finally, reluctantly, he nodded. “It is possible,” he agreed. “Harry liked to deal with difficulties personally. I doubt if he would have thought of such an idea by himself. But if it were suggested to him . . .”

  Vallejo leaned forward intently. “If, perhaps, it were put to him in the guise of an invitation from Nadal? What would his reaction have been?”

  “I suppose he would have agreed.” Romero fingered his chin, frowning. “But I would have expected him to tell someone. Is your theory that the invitation came in such a way that Harry had no time?”

  “Not exactly. The last thing Mr. Zimmerman told Mr. Olmsted was that he must rush to the union headquarters. Unfortunately Señora Galiano was not at headquarters that morning. But you see my line of thought. Who had already gotten the better of young Nadal? Wasn’t she the logical person for him to tell?”

  “Yes, that is sensible. But what does it have to do with your idea of a missing link at Slax?”

  Vallejo leaned back, watching Romero carefully. “Where could Mr. Zimmerman have received such an invitation that morning? He was not sitting in a hotel room, where anyone could have telephoned him. He was constantly on the move. He was not following any schedule. The message must have been delivered personally. And where? He was at the Lippert home, he was at the plant in Bayamón, he was at the dock in Cataño. And who were the people who had access to him? The people of Slax! Is that not true?”

  “You make it very convincing, Captain.” Romero suddenly surrendered to a jaw-breaking yawn. “I am sure there is something wrong with your reasoning, but I cannot find it.”

  “It is because you are tired that you think there is something wrong. You will see. When you are rested, you will agree with me.”

  “Then you may have to wait a long time.”

  Cesar Romero had not had a night’s sleep since Harry Zimmerman’s disappearance. His hours at the Slax plant had alternated with hours at the Lippert home. Now his fineboned face had become cavernous, with sharp ridges defining his nose and cheekbones. He was hollow-eyed with fatigue.

  “It is too much,” Vallejo said sympathetically. “Trying to salvage Slax and help the Lipperts.”

  Romero set his chin firmly. “I am only doing what has to be done. Even if Slax closes down tomorrow, it must be kept going today.”

  Captain Vallejo in fact was putting in as many hours as Cesar Romero. After a full day in Bayamón, he returned to his own office and the inevitable accumulation on his desk. One report bore the legend “Urgent” in his superior’s handwriting. He read it at once.

  Five minutes later he was in his chief’s office.

  “I have just read the post-mortem findings. They must be wrong,” he exclaimed.

  “That is what we all thought. I assure you, Vallejo, there is no possibility of error. The stomach and its contents were in good condition. And there is ample testimony at the hotel about Zimmerman’s breakfast.”

  Once again Vallejo stared at the document in wonder. “But the doctor says that, at the very latest, Zimmerman was killed late Monday afternoon. That was before the fiesta, before Nadal’s speech in the Parque de las Palomas, before the fire.”

  With the satisfying savor that comes from passing on one’s troubles, his superior said, “The doctor put that in for a safety margin. He inclines to the view that Zimmerman was killed nearer to noon.”

  The full implication of the autopsy was sinking home, bit by bit.

  “But that means,” said Vallejo, at last realizing the magnitude of the readjustment required, “that Harry Zimmerman was never kidnapped at all!”

  Chapter 18.

  Women’s Wear

  John Putnam Thatcher had long since concluded that the only thing to expect from Puerto Rico was the unexpected. First a routine investment in the garment trade had plunged the Sloan, and incidentally its senior vice-president, into a kaleidoscope of crime and violence. Now CBS was telling him that desperate and lawless political extremists had not kidnapped Harry Zimmerman. Zimmerman had not been kidnapped at all.

  He had, however, been murdered.

  Thatcher was not sure whether this confirmed Commercial Credit’s contention that Puerto Rico was as American as apple pie or International’s view that its flora, fauna and dramatics were ineradicably exotic. He was confident, however, that fallout from this latest development would somehow or other drift back to his desk. After all, Harry Zimmerman—however his death came about—had been a Sloan client.

  So, as Thatcher informed Miss Corsa, he was braced.

  Miss Corsa, who had taken an inexplicable dislike to everything about Puerto Rico—from papaya trees to Mrs. Schroeder in Hato Rey—no doubt could have told him he was braced for the wrong thing. Certainly she was disapproving when she put through another call from San Juan.

  Without regret, Thatcher set aside a report illustrating the power of heart over head. Some trust officers in the Sloan still yearned to buy Penn Central stock.

  “What was that, Pete?” he asked. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

  Olmsted was so indignant he was gabbling. Thatcher could not sympathize. The Sloan’s three-million-dollar loan to Slax Unlimited depended on Pete Olmsted’s keeping his head. So Thatcher was astringent.

  “Did you say something about Mrs. Lippert?” he interrupted. “Please convey my condolences. But what . . .?”

  Olmsted was not wasting time on bereavement.

  “Norma owns Slax now,” he said. “Harry left her everything.”

  The police might find this interesting; Thatcher did not. In the first place, Olmsted had already given him a very complete review of Slax’s ownership. In the second place, Sloan investments in family firms were protected, to the nth degree, against mishaps to principals.

  “She’s out to make trouble,” Olmsted went on with distinct sourness. “She’s lashing in all directions.”

  Thatcher valued precision. “Exactly what kind of trouble is Mrs. Lippert causing?” he asked. “And for whom?”

  Olmsted started at the top of his list.

  It was the first formal meeting of the Slax management since Harry’s death. Pete Olmsted had arrived expecting general accord. Things did not work out that way.

  David Lippert sat at the head of the table. “I’ve asked Pete to sit in with us so you’ll all know the situation,” he began. “He and I have gone over the figures, and unfortunately we don’t see any other way out. We’re going to have to close down the Bayamón operation gradually over the next month. It’s going to mean extra work for all of us. And not work we enjoy. But I know I can count on you.”

  Eric Marten and Cesar Romero knew the financial realities even better than David Lippert.

  “I wish I could give you an argument,” Marten said sadly, “but I can’t.”

  Romero nodded in resignation.

  There was a short silence. Olmsted assumed that the last word had been spoken. He was wrong.

  Norma Lippert had not been agreeing. She had been thinking.

  “David, you haven’t really given this enough time,” she said. “Harry thought Slax could do well in Bayamón—and it has. It’s been our most profitable operation for the last two years. We can go on with Slax in Puerto Rico. I know we can.”

  In the last three days Norma had lost weight. There was a new maturity about her. But the horror of Harry’s death had not crushed her. She had been distraught when his fate was still uncertain. Afterward, she had wept uncontrollably. But there, almost abruptly, Norma’s mourning ended. Grief she might feel; outwardly she was herself again.

  “Honey, I haven’t wanted to bother you,” David said. “But if we don’t sell off Bayamón, we may be in real hot water. It isn’t just the Sloan that we have to pay off.”

  She smiled lovingly at him but addressed Cesar, sitting on her right.

  “Do you really agree, Cesar? Do you think we have to sell the Bayamón plant?”

&
nbsp; Romero chewed a lip. “Nobody here wants Slax to sell off Bayamón. But look at the damage that’s been done. We have lost customers and we will lose more. We do not have a warehouse. Finally—” He broke off apologetically.

  “Go on,” Norma said steadily. Of all the people in the office, she was easily the most composed. In their various ways, David, Eric and Cesar, even Olmsted, were still caught up in the past. Norma was the only one who had put what had happened behind her and was looking to the future.

  Cesar was not happy. “Harry,” he said. The single word cast a pall. Harry Zimmerman had been washed ashore with his throat cut. The search for Prudencio Nadal might still be proceeding. But Captain Vallejo had returned to Slax with questions, questions, questions.

  Nobody really wanted to face what that suggested.

  With an effort, Cesar forced himself on. “When Harry was alive—I’m sorry, Norma—he ran sales from New York. Bayamón could concentrate on production. Now the situation is totally different. Perhaps without Harry you will find that Slax is too large.”

  Norma’s reply was not what he had bargained for. “I agree with you—about Harry,” she said. “That’s why David has to go up to New York right away.”

  She startled everybody, including her husband.

  David stopped studying his pencil. “But, Norma, I can’t go to New York. I have to wind up things down here.”

  She reached over to clasp his arm warmly. “But now that we’re not closing Bayamón, the important place for the man in charge is New York. Our whole future depends on sales and advertising. Now that Harry’s gone, you’re the logical person to take his place.”

  She left everybody speechless, except Eric Marten.

  “For Christ’s sake, Norma!” he exploded. “What do you mean, we’re not closing down Bayamón? We can’t afford to keep it open.”

  “We can’t afford to keep it open if David doesn’t take charge in New York,” she retorted.

  Marten’s face darkened. He was on the brink of losing his temper completely.

  Without waiting for others, Olmsted leaped into the breach. “The Sloan has gone over the capital budget and the income accounts, Mrs. Lippert, as I’m sure your husband told you. Before you lose more money, it would be a good idea to retrench. That means selling Bayamón. The sale will give you cash to meet your other obligations. It will also—”

  As Olmsted subsequently reported to Thatcher, Norma was not giving an inch.

  “I don’t care what the Sloan advises,” she said roundly. “We are going to keep Slax open in Puerto Rico as long as I—we—can!”

  And I own Slax now! Although unspoken, the sentiment rang clear as a bell.

  Norma shed imperiousness for cajolery. “I think you’ve all let yourselves get too pessimistic. Things aren’t as bad as they could be. Remember when we were watching the fire in Cataño? We thought we had lost a warehouse almost filled with finished goods. But now we know the freight forwarder managed to ship everything out before the fire. So we’re not any worse off than we were before. Isn’t that so, Eric?”

  “Sure,” he said lifelessly.

  “That means Slax is meeting its delivery dates,” Norma said triumphantly.

  “For how long?” Cesar intervened, but she ignored him.

  “We can keep Slax going,” she said. “You’ll see, Mr. Olmsted.”

  It was almost physically impossible, Olmsted found, to remind Norma Lippert of the problems she had conveniently forgotten. Such as the murder of Harry Zimmerman and those questions Captain Vallejo was asking.

  But they were what he was thinking about in the taxi ride back to Hato Rey.

  Marten and Romero, meanwhile, were heading for Cesar’s office.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Marten rumbled, once they were clear of the Lipperts. He led the way through the work floor. The familiar clatter of sewing machines, of voices calling for more material, of dollies wheeling past with heaps of finished goods, assailed their ears. Despite everything that had happened, Slax was working at top capacity. It was almost unreal.

  They halted while Romero signed an order for a foreman, then continued upstairs.

  “Even if nothing else occurs,” Cesar began once they had reached his quarters, “do you think she can keep Slax running in Puerto Rico?”

  “Without Harry?” Marten snorted. “David couldn’t run a sewing machine, and you know it as well as I do, Cesar.”

  There was a pregnant pause, then he said, “And why the hell is Norma so hot to get him up to New York right now? He’ll just ball things up there, too.”

  Cesar smiled enigmatically. “Norma says that New York is the place for the man in charge.”

  “Man in charge!” Eric scoffed. “David was born to take orders. I wonder what she really has in mind.”

  “I am afraid,” Cesar said, “that Norma wants to get David out of Puerto Rico. At least to another jurisdiction.”

  Marten’s jaw dropped.

  “After all, Eric, it is clear where suspicion turns if Nadal did not kill Harry. To someone who benefits from Harry’s death. And who benefits more than the Lipperts? You underestimate Norma. She is not Harry’s sister for nothing.”

  He might have been amused to realize that Norma was returning the compliment in kind.

  “Cesar’s no fool,” Norma was saying, more to herself than to David. “You know, when I went to pick up the kids I was talking to Elena. From something she said, I got the impression that Cesar is looking for a new job.”

  David rose and took a quick turn around the office. “Of course he is,” he said gruffly. “Can you blame him? Listen, Norma, I know how you feel about keeping Slax going down here, but it just won’t work. You heard what Olmsted said. Well, he’s right. And unless you want to lose every penny you’ve got in Slax, the sensible thing to do is to sell. . . .”

  She listened with flattering deference as he spoke. Since Harry’s death, Norma’s behavior to David had been, if anything, more affectionate than ever before.

  “. . . and besides, this idea of my going to New York isn’t any good,” he wound up. He was trying to sound masterful.

  “It’s a very good idea, David,” she said emphatically.

  “Why?”

  She rose and searched vaguely for her purse. “Oh, you know we have to have somebody up there,” she said.

  He barred her way to the door.

  “Why, Norma?” he repeated insistently.

  “Because,” she said, raising her chin, “they’ve killed my brother! They’re not going to do anything to my husband! David, I have to get back to the children!”

  With a swift kiss, she was gone. Slowly David closed the door behind her, then went to his desk and sat down. When his secretary came in for dictation, she found him with his head buried in his hands.

  Norma, meanwhile, was driving herself back to Isla Verde. She was troubled by no second thoughts. Slax in Bayamón was going to stay open. David was going to New York as soon as possible. That was that—no matter what anybody said.

  She cut in front of a taxi without seeing it. It was too much to say that Norma Lippert was contented with her work. But she had seen a problem and had solved it. In the last terrible days, she had found new resources in herself, new ways of thinking and acting. They surprised her, but they also strengthened her.

  Although she did not realize it, Norma Lippert had stopped being a girl and become a woman.

  She was not discomposed to discover a visitor waiting for her.

  “Well, Captain Vallejo?” She was cool, supercilious.

  “I am sorry to trouble you again,” Vallejo murmured. He was deeply interested in this new Mrs. Lippert, so different from the woman he had encountered earlier.

  This new Mrs. Lippert whose brother’s death left her sole owner of Slax.

  “I want to help in any way I can,” she said distantly.

  There was nothing new in their exchange. Yes, the last time she had seen her brother had been here
at the house, the morning of his murder. Yes, there had been a quarrel.

  “Your husband does not inherit any Slax stock?” Vallejo asked.

  He touched a nerve. “What I have is my husband’s,” she blazed with a passion that mocked her earlier composure. “Everything I have is David’s and the children’s. And if you think either of us would harm Harry—” She broke off, but she did not weep. Instead, in a deadly voice, she said, “We weren’t the last ones to see Harry. What about Mr. Olmsted? Harry went to see him, didn’t he? Why don’t you talk to him, not me?”

  Vallejo’s silence spurred her on.

  “One of them is lying,” she said. “Either him or that Galiano woman. Why don’t you talk to them, Captain Vallejo? Not to us. We loved Harry! They didn’t. And I’ll tell you something else. Harry didn’t trust either of them. So why don’t you find out why they’re lying?”

  Vallejo wondered at the venom in her voice. All he said was, “We are exploring it, Mrs. Lippert, just as we are exploring everything else. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Norma had herself in hand once again. She nodded, in effect dismissing him.

  “I may find it necessary to return to you,” he said.

  She looked unwaveringly at him. “I intend to stay in Puerto Rico,” she said defiantly. “You can talk to me any time you wish, Captain Vallejo.”

  “A lot of goddam foolishness,” Olmsted was saying irately. “Poor Harry. I’ve been doing business with him for years. If he didn’t trust me, he didn’t trust anybody!”

  From what little he recalled of the dead man, Thatcher was inclined to doubt this. Harry Zimmerman was one of the breed who never trusted anybody implicitly, not excluding representatives of the Sloan Guaranty Trust. It would do Pete Olmsted no harm to realize that bankers are not always regarded as universal uncles.

  “And as for Annie,” Olmsted went on, “that’s just Norma’s spite. Harry relied on Annie, which is more than you can say for that sister of his. And after this morning I can see why. Did I tell you—”

  “Yes, you did,” said Thatcher. “Well, Olmsted, I regret that you are entangled with the police.”

  Olmsted denied that he was entangled with the police. He had simply been asked to repeat his account of Harry Zimmerman’s last day.