by Emma Lathen
Finally an exasperated detective came up with a brainstorm. A moment’s thought told him that a 1968 jade green Oldsmobile license 317487 was on the whole a lot more noticeable than Patterson. Accordingly he altered some orders to subordinates. Within hours the inquiries to friends, relatives, and business associates slackened while fuellers, parkers, and passing admirers of the car were sought.
All this took time.
During this time, Thatcher put the deteriorating situation in the Loan Policy Committee from his mind at judicious intervals by debating the question of right and wrong. Since he was long past adolescence, this was not a customary self-indulgence, but he was motivated by his regard for George and more importantly his approval of Lancer’s behavior.
Lancer had already apologized for exposing Thatcher to their trying afternoon in Rye. Thereafter he avoided entangling Thatcher further. Thatcher knew, from Lancer’s altered lunch habits and a steam of disruptive incoming calls, that the Patterson storm had not been swept out to sea. But Lancer remained punctilious and proffered information only in response to direct questions.
So it was Thatcher’s own curiosity that hooked him. Dissimilar as he was in every other respect from Gabe, Thatcher shared with him a professional interest in money and negotiable instruments. He heard without much interest the surprising fact that Patterson was still at large, days after he had become the object of a widespread police hunt.
“Makes you wonder,” George commented. “Nobody describes Elliot as a cloak and dagger type. How on earth can he be keeping out of sight?”
“Contacts with the Mafia?” Thatcher suggested. “Remember the underworld is going respectable, George. Patterson probably raises millions from sinister figures in Chicago and Providence.”
His secretary, Miss Corsa, overhearing this, directed a censorious look at Mr. Thatcher. When a wonderful family man like Mr. Patterson got into this sort of trouble, Miss Corsa could not countenance frivolity on Mr. Thatcher’s part. Fortunately her duties called her elsewhere and Lancer by referring to the missing $50,000 bond, pricked up Thatcher’s ears.
“Missing George? Oh come now! $50,000 doesn’t get mislaid like a pair of glasses,” Thatcher said.
“We are not saying that,” George answered. “There is still a possibility it will turn up in Patterson’s accounts. Gage got the auditors in.”
“O Ho,” exclaimed Thatcher.
George continued to explain why it was felt that the bond might turn up at Target. Then honesty compelled him to add that the Dartmouth Committee also entertained hopes that Patterson was safeguarding the bond, wherever he was.
“George,” said Thatcher, quite seriously now, “when I hear talk of missing bonds warning bells ring for me.”
Although they were quite alone, Lancer still glanced around Thatcher’s office.
“Me too.”
“And Gabe makes three,” concluded John.
Lancer could not dispute this. There is no valid reason to audit the books of a perfectly respectable employee who has simply strayed, without premeditation or preparation, into a life of crime and flight.
“I tell you, I don’t understand it,” George finally exclaimed. “First Patterson is a perfectly ordinary breadwinner. Then Patterson is a crazy hit and run killer. Then Patterson is big time crook who has run off with money belonging to Target — and Dartmouth.”
Not the sort of career that Dartmouth hopes for in its graduates, nobody had to add. George relapsed into a somber study and Thatcher was back with right and wrong. Was this the moment to inform George that at least one member of the Dartmouth Committee scented something even more malodorous?
John was not a man to shirk duty, no matter how unpalatable. He did, however, find himself grasping at straws. If Patterson were simply a terrified victim of accident, then the point need not arise.
He would postpone his revelations and hope strenuously that the worst Patterson had done was run amok in Putnam County with somebody else’s $50,000.
Chapter 7
Field Trips are Scheduled
Day followed day.
At the Sloan the Loan Policy Committee adjourned, leaving Thatcher and Lancer free to return to their other responsibilities. At Target, Weaver Colby & Colby, CPAs, tortured Gabe by demanding and getting confidential details concerning fund drives by the Macedonian Freedom League. In Rye, Sally collected her daughters from her cowed sister and brother-in-law who found their charming feminine ways overpowering, and not only shopped at the Westchester Shopping Center but attended a meeting of the Rye Kindergarten League Parents Association. The Dartmouth Committee, without much enthusiasm, resumed the process of interviewing lanky unformed youths whose only goal in life they claimed was to prove worthy of Dartmouth.
In Brewster, New York, two teenagers were interred after a sermon centering on the slaughter of innocents which confused the bereaved friends and relatives among the mourners.
And still that was no sign of Patterson.
“The police have stepped up the search,” George said over lunch. “Carruthers has a friend who knows the Commissioner, and he says they’re giving it all they’ve got. He says they expected to pick up Elliot with 10 hours.”
Everyone had expected it, Thatcher thought but did not say aloud. Certainly, after the state troopers had fractured the glacial calm of the Patterson home, he had expected a swift resolution, whether in the form of arrest or suicide. But quick or dead, Patterson was still at large.
“The police have even been asking questions up at Dartmouth,” George continued. “Elliot went up for a visit this spring and sure enough the police checked it out. Todd, he’s the new president, you know, called me about it.”
“Mm,” said Thatcher.
More and more he felt he should have a little talk with George. Less and less did he want to. He seized on what he knew of the modern college president. “Tell me, has that $50,000 bond turned up?”
George caught the mild mockery. “Not yet. But they haven’t finished the audit over at Target. We’re hoping it will turn up there. And also” — he grinned suddenly — “and also hoping that Mrs. Curtis won’t get wind of this. Then there will be hell to pay.”
Thatcher decided that he was not the man to dash hopes. Event, however, were conspiring to force his hand.
The first was unfolding at 333 Madison Avenue.
It is a heck of a position,” Gabe complained, savaging his fourth cigarette although he had recently given up smoking entirely. “Oh come in Pete. What’s this? Oh yes. Yes that should do it. Tell Blakesly to run off, of, say 20,000 of these brochures. And tell him we can’t use “Give until it hurts.” Somebody else already has it.”
Marian watched him take Pete’s outline, shake error from it, whip it back into shape with penciled emendations, then speed Pete off with his usual decisiveness.
“Good boy, Pete,” Gabe commented. “Coming along fine. Needs watching of course. Where was I?”
“You were in a heck of a position,” Marian told him.
The two senior members of Target were waiting for the final report from the CPAs. Other members of the staff maintained routine. Outside Gabe’s inadequate cubicle phones rang, typewriters clattered, as contributors to college building funds were circularized, $1000 a plate banquets arranged, and exhaustive lists of tax advantages compiled. But for two days Gabe and Marian had been cut off from such activity as they held themselves ready to aid the CPAs in a whirlwind of record gathering, phone verifying, and conferring.
“That’s right,” Gabe agreed. “Either Elliot planned to skip and cleaned us out, God forbid, or he’s a hit and run murderer. Either way, it is not going to do Target any good.”
Before Marian could comment, Doris opened the door and announced Mr. Colby.
Gabe instantly shed concern and became his usual expansive self. “Ed, come on in. Sit down. Sit down. Let’s get this off our chests and back to work.”
If Ed detected the undercurrent of suppressed hyste
ria, he was kind-hearted enough to resist the temptation to prolong it.
“As far as we can see Gabe, everything is fine,” he said, digging into a bulging briefcase. “Not a penny missing. In fact, Dad was saying that he’d be surprised if your own accounts were in such good order. This Patterson was a fanatic on keeping everything in beautiful shape.”
Colby continued. “Here’s your summary,” he said slapping down a thick bundle of documents. “The fund holdings of the Upstate Democratic Committee, those escrow funds of Wentwood University. Amalgamated Blood Banks keeps three checking accounts, and the Armenian Apostolic Diocese has this large debt … and so on and so on … and here are the current income statements, notarized treasurer’s reports, and the receipts we turned up.”
Colby dealt briskly with Patterson’s Target accounts; he finally produced a signed statement saying in effect that the CPA firm was satisfied that everything was hunky-dory.
“I have always had complete faith in Elliot’s probity,” Gabe said with dignity.
“Sure,” said Colby with a grin. Everybody invariably had faith in the financial probity of employees and partners. Still, the CPA firm were kept jumping with emergency audits. “Say, what’s this I hear about Elliot getting into some sort of trouble about running somebody down?”
It took seven minutes and all the skill of two experts to lever Ed out of Target without hurting his feelings.
“Well thank God for that,” said Gabe after he returned from escorting Ed to the elevator. “But you see, people are already talking.”
“Of course they are,” said Marian. “Just wait until the police catch up with Elliot.”
Gabe was a pragmatist to the bone. “I guess we’ll have to take things as they come. At least Elliot didn’t touch a penny. That’s something.”
But Marian was still frowning. “It makes things even more mysterious than ever, Gabe.”
“Well, it proves that he innocently got into his car and had this accident doesn’t it?” Gabe argued.
She pushed aside the Colby report with dissatisfaction and leaned forward. “But what was he doing driving around Putnam County?” she demanded. “Was he up to something Sally didn’t know about? OR is Sally keeping something from us?”
Gabe remained silent and let her continue.
“You know Gabe, something about this doesn’t ring true to me.”
Before he could say anything, she rose and elegantly strolled out of the office. To keep from thinking about her past comment, Gabe set about fulfilling a promise. “Doris, get me Kitchener, will you?”
When the call came through he was terse. “Kitchener? Gabe here. The CPAs just left. Elliot’s accounts are in perfect shape.”
The phone offered tempered congratulations, then Gabe continued, “No, no sign of that bond. Here’s the list. No sign of any $50,000 bond. None at all.”
The phone erupted.
“Kitchener,” Gabe said urgently. “Elliot probably had the bond with him, when he had his accident. You’ll get it when it turns up.”
This did not hearten Kitchener, and Gabe, even as he offered assurance, acknowledged the accuracy of Marian’s comment. The whole thing was as phony as a three dollar bill. After he hung up, he sat lost in thought. He was so silent that Doris thought he had left his desk. She barely restrained an alarmed cry when she bustled into his office and found him sitting there.
Whelby Kitchener was also troubled but not also immobilized. On the contrary, he girded himself for action. HE was not at all happy to think of a $50,000 bond belonging to Dartmouth in the hands of a fugitive from justice. Not happy at all. In fact, he was so unhappy about it that he decided to exhaust the last remaining possibility. The bond was not in the filing cabinet at the Club; it was not deposited in any known Patterson account; there remained Rye.
Kitchener was gripped by a strong sense of ill-usage as he grumpily entrained for Rye at the most inconvenient hour of the day. No consideration for Mrs. Patterson’s feelings led him to make the trip himself, it was perfectionism.
He wanted to preside over the examination of Patterson’s study himself. He regarded all women as incompetent ninnies, and he did not trust any young mother to make a thorough search. The browbeaten women in his own life, ranging from secretary to wife to widowed sister-in-law, had grown accustomed to meek acceptance of his masterful judgments and unending strictures. Whelby Kitchener, in a phrase, was ill-prepared for Rye.
Mrs. Patterson greeted him graciously, made small talk without referring to her absent husband, and showed unmistakable signs of wanting to have an intelligent chat about college financial problems.
Kitchener was firm. “I am pressed for time, my dear lady,” he said accusingly. “The afternoon trains all seem to be locals. I really must get down to this.”
“I insist on helping you, Mr. Kitchener,” said Mrs. Patterson with the same firmness. “Elliot doesn’t keep many papers at home, but I know what he does have here. We always discuss his most interesting cases.”
Kitchener restrained a shudder. This vision of wifely helpfulness and support so grated on him that he let slip what he had not meant to reveal. “It is not a question of papers, Mrs. Patterson,” he said frigidly. “It is a question of a $50,000 bond.”
Mrs. Patterson compressed her lips slightly before replying. “Oh you mean Mrs. Curtis’ donation. We were so happy for Dartmouth. But, Mr. Kitchener, Elliot would never have brought the bond home. He is exceptionally careful to keep money and stocks and bonds in safety …”
Kitchener had not come this long way to listen to another encomium to Patterson’s impeccable business methods.
“Yes indeed Mrs. Patterson,” he interrupted, “but the fact remains that the bond seems to be missing.”
She took a deep breath. “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Knightley? That bond is probably at Target. That’s where it must be.”
Kitchener did not waste words by denying this but repeated he was pressed for time. Fortunately for him, as Mrs. Patterson was just as determined as he, a sudden childish treble in the backyard claimed her attention.
“Of course you may look through Elliot’s papers,” she said with conscious courtesy. “I can assure you that there is nothing to interest you, but you have my permission. Here, in here. This is our little library study.”
Kitchener fought down his resentment. He intended to look at Patterson’s papers no matter what Mrs. Patterson said. As for her permission…
With a final malediction on the modern woman he settled down to work.
It did not detain him long. Patterson’s papers were neatly docketed in file folders. In spite of one or two forays which were a tribute to Kitchener’s general nosiness, he looked into the tax folder to see how much Patterson was making, really, he thought, young men were grossly overpaid these days, he was able to do the job in 15 minutes. Then frowning unhappily, he did it all over again. This time there were no side excursions. He had eyes only for one thing. At the end of 25 minutes he knew that Mrs. Patterson was absolutely correct.
There was nothing resembling a $50,000 bearer bond in the room.
Chapter 8
Students on the Accelerated Program
In the end, a bad tempered old lady propelled Thatcher into the discussion he had hoped to avoid. Mrs. Warren V. Curtis, aged 89 and the terror of her family and neighbors in Greenwich and Palm Springs, was not a rose to bloom in the desert.
“Good heavens, that woman must have gotten wind of things,” George exclaimed, putting down the phone. She’s been calling Dartmouth, trying to find out why she hasn’t heard anything from them about her donation. Really, considering how much money Curtis must have left, it is disgraceful that the old harridan is only giving the college $50,000 …”
It was one point of view, of course. Thatcher leaned back and considered Mrs. Curtis. The police search for Patterson might stretch out indefinitely. No octogenarian has time to throw away.
“Lyman Todd calmer her down with some story
or other,” Lancer continued. “But sooner or later, she’s going to find out what’s happened and when she does …”
To avoid thinking of those perils, Thatcher asked if the dowager had made efforts to contact Patterson. He was the one, after all, who had managed to extract a bequest from her in the first place.
She had. Both home and office parroted unconvincing tales about out of town trips. But if Elliot remained unavailable, the evil news would reach even such sequestered dears as hers.
“And let me tell you, she’s a woman who likes nothing better than kicking up a fuss,” said Lancer. “There’s no use appealing to her loyalty to Dartmouth, as I told Todd. Besides, they still have hopes from her will. Personally I expect she’ll leave her fortune to a home for distressed gentlewomen.”
The whole rationale of storm watching is to anticipate catastrophe with a view to intelligent preparation. Thatcher, after considering and rejecting the notion of enlisting Lucy’s assistance, took a deep breath. “George, may I say a few words about this whole Patterson situation?”
Lancer looked at him disarmingly and said, “I wish you would, John. I’d be interested to hear your opinion. You’ve been very forbearing with me. I’ve appreciated it. I can’t help feeling somewhat troubled.”
“Yes, I know.”
George twirled a pencil. “I don’t claim to be a professional alumnus, you know. But I do feel obliged to help Dartmouth when it is involved in unsavory publicity—which is inevitable with hit and run murders. And unless that bond turns up pretty soon, Mrs. Curtis will be creating a storm of her own. I hope we can avoid it.”