by Emma Lathen
“What do you think Elliot is up to?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. But he is going to pay the price for it, not me.”
“But things may clear up,” Gabe reminded her.
“You sound just like my brother-in-law.” Sally’s tone did not imply a compliment. “I suppose you both mean well. You don’t understand the situation. Bill tells me not to make any hasty decisions. As if staying in Rye weren’t a result of a decision, like anything else. I could be trapped simply because I let things go for 24 hours too long.”
“Trapped?” Gabe was now genuinely at sea.
“I am going to sell the house and move myself and children someplace where no one has heard of Elliot Patterson as fast as I can.”
“Well I can see how that might be something you want to do eventually, although I think you’ll find that the fervor over Elliot will die out soon. What I don’t understand is all this rush. It is scarcely three weeks since his disappearance. What if he turns up?”
She took a deep breath and said, “That’s what I am afraid of.”
“Afraid of? I thought you wanted Elliot back.”
“I wanted my life back. The life I’ve worked for all these years. And what chance of that do I have now? If Elliot walked in tomorrow, he would be arrested in a riot of publicity. Is that what I’ve worked for all these years? Is that what I’ve raised my children for?”
Gabe ducked the question. “I’m sure there’s some explanation for the bond. I can’t believe that Elliot. —”
Sally cut him off, “Bond? He will be arrested for murder.”
“Oh it may not come to that.”
“You have to face facts,” Sally said defiantly. “I can’t afford to deceive myself by willful blindness. And the fact is that Elliot will be arrested for murder.” Sally was clearly writing off Elliot with a vengeance.
Natural perversity led Gabe to support him. “But what if he didn’t do it?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Elliot wouldn’t,” Gabe said weakly.
“How do I know what Elliot would or wouldn’t do? He’s destroyed everything we built together. It’s not my fault it’s gone, but it would be silly to pretend that it’s still there.”
Gabe could scarcely say that, in that case, he would have preferred a slightly sillier woman. But he could say something else. “Then you don’t want to be around when Elliot is caught?” His words were hard and blunt.
“No. So that people can expect me to stand behind him? So that I can pretend to be the loyal wife to a man who has nothing to do with the man I married?” Sally’s voice quickened so that her words blurred together. “I won’t. I must get away.”
Suddenly Gabe realized that Sally was afraid of herself. She knew that without the protection of distance and anonymity she could not resists the pressures to play Rye’s casting of her.
From Target’s point of view this was good. Sally would not put up an extended battle over the pension plan. But as Gabe escorted a temporarily silenced Sally to the hallway, he was graver than usual. He stood for a moment watching her march to the elevator, but he was not thinking of her. HE was reviewing the events of the past few days, not the open events but the little reactions he had noted, the silences, and sudden smiles which his shrewd antennae had dutifully recorded. Then he came to a decision.
When he turned, he did not go back to his office. Instead he marched with new firmness to Marian’s. Entering, he assured himself that they were alone, closed the door, seated himself directly in front of the desk and said, “Marian I think it is time we had a talk.” Marian believed in facing facts just as strongly as Sally. She laid down her pen, took in the situation with one swift look, and nodded agreement.
“Yes Gabe. But be prepared for a shock.” Marian began to speak slowly. She kept her tone studiously neutral, her eyes firmly fixed on her desktop, as if she wanted Gabe to receive her information free from any taint of bias or suggestion. Perhaps she hoped to keep all emotion out of the situation.’’
If so, she failed. As she spoke Gabe first became very red, then almost white. A few incoherent syllables emerged, but when she halted questioningly to invite comment, he waved her on. With the next piece of data, he began to sputter cholerically.
“But then you mean…” And he was doing this while he was at Target?”
Marian left no room for doubt. “I’m afraid so, Gabe.” At last she looked at him squarely.
“And you expect me to go along?” he said.
Marian did not resort to any evasions about doing what he thought best. Her answer was totally uncompromising. “Yes. Yes Gabe, I do.”
For a moment their eyes locked. Then Gabe went off into peal after peal of wild laughter.
Chapter 23
Please Read Instructions Carefully
John was not laughing out loud. But he was quietly enjoying a richly deserved day at the Sloan, terrorizing everyone unwise enough to cross his path. With unwonted brutality he interjected into the debates of the Investment Committee a scathing reminder to Walter Bowman of the red ink produced by recent Research Department recommendations. When Bowman’s ancient enemies from the International Division looked pious, John patched on them too:
“Let me put it this way,” he said astringently. “There may be money to be made, but I do not propose to let this bank risk millions of dollars solely because you see, for reasons that still elude me, a high degree of political stability in Chile, Greece, and Ghana.”
After bringing the Investment Committee to its knees, John proceeded to rout George over lunch. “George, I have come over to your point of view?”
Alerted by John’s relish, George looked up inquiringly.
John continued. “These attempts to shore up Dartmouth are inadequate. What we need at this juncture of affairs is a grand gesture. Why don’t you give them a new dormitory?”
George choked slightly over his onion soup. Nevertheless he might have taken this seriously if John had not felt inspired to add, “A show of confidence, George. Something on the order of JP Morgan buying.”
He referred to a dramatic incident in 1929. With pardonable indignation George pointed out that he, like Thatcher, had lived through the succeeding debacle on Wall Street. Then firmly he discussed the Sloan’s new bank letter.
Such a morning could not fail to refresh. John had been on the receiving end of too much discomfort lately. It is always more blessed to give than to receive. True, Dartmouth was the author of most of his recent trials. So in a way Bowman and International were innocent victims too. But both Bowman and International were sure to rise up and smite him before the year was out. There was no harm in being beforehand in these things.
Miss Corsa, on the other hand, had not been designed to be an innocent victim. She greeted her employer’s return to his own desk and responsibilities with approval suggesting that his recent derelictions had been a selfish search for worldly pleasure. Then she produced a large pile of documents requiring his attention, declared herself ready to take dictation whenever needed, promised to intercept phone calls, and withdrew. Thatcher was in no doubt: dealings with Lucy had enabled Miss Corsa to add to the already long list of his shortcomings.
He was at his own desk ready for his own work. For precisely 12 minutes he continued this performance. Then, without being quite aware of the transition, he found himself swiveled around, starting out the grimy window at a lowering sky. Thinking about Elliot Patterson.
This did not surprise him. As far as he was concerned, Dartmouth could minister its own. These small select colleges were always prating about the value of a liberal education through the thick and thin of life. Well here was the acid test.
John shook his head. Sprague? In the last analysis Sprague could be left to the police. Sooner or later they would find a witness, a fingerprint, a button, and a murderer. They were paid to think about bloodstained bodies. He was not.
And his initial sympathy with the put-upon
George?
Thatcher, a realist to his core, decided that his supply of sympathy was not unlimited. George had been drawing pretty heavily upon it recently.
But he could not rid himself of a persistent buzz of curiosity about Patterson. Where had the man gone and why? This was a nuisance, like the tantalizing tune that dances out of recollection or the name of the ninth Supreme Court Justice. Whether the information is of any use or not, the tickle remains.
John straightened, suddenly struck with a thought. The quintessence of these intellectual gnats is that they represent misplaced familiar facts, not the great unknowns. No one, after all, is tormented for days wondering what the moon is made of: no, it is always the name of that chap you saw at lunch, the one you met 10 years ago.
Was Patterson that. Rather like a great X? Were the bits and pieces of information aimlessly afloat concealing a complete explanation that would appear once they fell or were put in place?
Methodically John began an inventory of what was known about Patterson. He was, or had been, unremarkable, similar in many respects to thousands of the men who churn between suburb and Manhattan. A competent valued middle rank executive at Target.
“But was he?” Thatcher asked himself, recalling Gabe and Marian. Exactly what had been the currents and cross currents at Target? At this stage it was not easy to tell.
Well, then, Patterson had been a devoted father and husband. Immediately an unbidden Sally marched into his mental line of sight. Sally in both phases: complete faith in Elliot followed by a rapid sale of assets.
No, even the most uncritical advocate of life in Rye could not claim Patterson’s domestic happiness was axiomatic.
John gave a low interior growl. All of this bore out the conclusions of a lifetime. Human beings and the tangles they create are endlessly fascinating, but they do not lend themselves to systematic classification. John prided himself on never running hard against the possible. Facts might be less multifaceted but they could be manipulated.
Well then. One afternoon Patterson had finished meeting with the Committee, Marsden, Armitage, and Dunlop. He had helped interview four young men, Sprague, Hughes, Younger, and Fursano. Then Patterson had disappeared along with Mrs. Curtis’s $50,000 bearer bond.
These were hard facts. Nothing slippery or elusive about them or was there?
“Hm,” said John to himself, running rapidly down a vocal history he had compiled mentally. Voices saying that Patterson was in a hurry and so pleased to have the Curtis bond. Young voices, old voices, sober voices, and drunken voices. “But…”
A discrete cough indicated he was not alone. He twirled around to find Miss Corsa waiting. Too old a hand to be embarrassed being caught in self-colloquy, John continued. “You know Miss Corsa,” he reflected aloud, “I’ve just been visited with a strange notion about Patterson. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it bears investigation.”
Miss Corsa had already done her bit in the great hunt for Patterson. She let her eyes rest on the untouched pile of documents reposing on Thatcher’s desk. Left to her own devices she could speed them on their various ways, but tribal custom required that Mr. Thatcher examine them. Miss Corsa was torn between loyalty to the system and her instinct for efficiency. Thus are saints tempted. Miss Corsa said nothing.
“What I need,” said Thatcher suggestively, “is someone to help me for just 20 minutes down at the Ivy League Club.” Outwardly unmoved Miss Corsa braced herself.
“We could be back quite soon.”
Miss Corsa had had enough. It was bad enough for Mr. Thatcher to be haring off in all directions. Let him entice her away from the Sloan, and who knew what might befall the Trust Department?
“What you should do, Mr. Thatcher,” she said kindly but firmly, “is to call Mrs. Lancer.”
In reply he stared at her for quite a long time. Then he said, “Lucy. Of course. That’s what I was thinking of. By God, Miss Corsa, you are absolutely right.”
Miss Corsa had never had any doubt of it, started dialing.
Women, or “the ladies” as Club rules describe them, are not allowed in the Club until after 5 PM. Accordingly when Lucy swept into the lobby at 3 PM that afternoon, it was with all flags flying.
“Herman. How nice to see you. Mr. Thatcher and I are running upstairs for a moment. And Franz. I do hope your wife is feeling better. Oh good…”
John, bringing up a poor second, saw that when it came to routing opposition he had much to learn. The issue was never in question. When the Club staff was asked to weight Mrs. Lancer against the bylaws, they abandoned the field.
She watched them leave with a discrete smile, and then turned to John. “Well we are here, John. Knowing you as I do, I realized that you were not suggesting an elopement—”
“I’m not sure that I take that as a compliment.”
“But now, will you please tell me exactly what you have in mind?” she finished.
“We-ell,” John temporized. “I have three separate conversations in mind,” he went on infuriatingly, looking around the big lobby. “They gave me the beginnings of an idea… Lucy, I think fate is taking a hand in this.”
“I do not regard that as an answer,” she told him sternly, but John had already moved from her side. For as he spoke, his eye had fallen upon the occupant of the chair near the stairwell. There in a posture of polite expectancy was a familiar figure. Two swift steps brought Thatcher to him. “You’re…not let me see…?”
“Fursano, sir,” said the young man, jumping to his feet with promptness. He then bestowed a blinding smile on Lucy that caused her, she later admitted, to regret her age and station.
Without hesitation, Thatcher performed introductions and demanded to know the reason for Fursano’s presence. “I’m not quite sure,” the boy replied honestly. Mr. Marsden and Mr. Dunlop want to talk to me.”
“I wonder why? Thatcher pondered. Then, briskly dismissing this further evidence of the incalculability of human beings, continued: “Well, you come along with us, will you, Fursano? We can use you.”
Pete was amenable. John led the way upstairs. “Now that I have an ally,” Lucy said cheerfully, trotting along obediently, “I insist on knowing what we are doing. You do too, don’t you Pete?”
Pete did.
“Oh didn’t I mention that,” John said. “We are going up to settle once and for all what happened to Patterson.”
There was a brief respectful silence. Then, with only a slight tremor in her voice, Lucy said, “We have perfect faith in you, John.”
“Yes sir,” said Pete bouncily.
John grinned and privately hoped that he could prove worthy of his troops. They arrived at the door of the offices of the New York Dartmouth Club, site of the recent deliberations of the Committee. Down a side turning, the quarters of the Pleydell College Club were brightly lit. Upstairs members of the Tiverton Alumni Association hurried in and out, concerned with the Christmas descent of the Tiverton Choir. By contrast, the Dartmouth Club stood empty and deserted. It was not a matter of neglect, they saw as they entered and Pete switched on the overhead light. No dust had settled on the waiting room furniture. There were even fresh flowers in the vases. Nor had the office beyond really been left derelict. Affairs at Dartmouth had become so convoluted that, John knew, platoons of secretaries were coping with correspondence during frenzied mornings, while deans dashed around to placate irate schoolmasters, test officials, and parents. Even as they stood there, the phone in the inner office erupted, chattered angrily, and then flounced back to silence.
“We’ll just ignore the phone,” said John. That would show Miss Corsa.
“I adore masterful men,” Lucy said, gracefully settling on the sofa and regarding her companions with benevolence. No, reality did not shadow the Dartmouth Club. Ghosts did. The ghost of a policeman standing guard at the door. The ghost of Elliot Patterson shoveling papers into a briefcase, then walking out in to a void. The ghost of Carter Sprague. Thatcher looked arou
nd for a moment, intercepted a bright expectant glance from Lucy, and set about his exorcism.
“Now Fursano,” he said, turning to the youth looming above him, “I want you to act as all four boys who were her during that last meeting.”
“Right,” said Fursano. “We’re going to reenact the whole thing?”
“Right,” said Thatcher absorbing a certain youthful directness. “And you, Lucy, you’re Patterson.”
“Right,” she said, immediately adopting an expression of deep seriousness.
“Say, that’s good,” said Pete admiringly.
John saw that this cast was going to require firm direction.
“And who are you, Mr. Thatcher?” asked Pete with lively intelligent interest.
“All the rest of them,” said John vaguely. This was not true. But he was not ready to make any IDs. “Now then, Patterson and the Committee were in the conference room when you boys arrived, weren’t they?”
The exceedingly amateur dramatic performance commenced, with young Fursano checking on the authenticity as they proceeded. “Yes, the door was closed,” he yodeled.
Lucy and John stationed themselves in the conference room. “I’m Patterson,” she said, getting into the spirit of things with a busy little frown. “The Committee isn’t ready for the boys yet. You’re Dunlop, just putting the files back in the office.”
Thatcher was not misled. Lucy’s eyes were intelligent too. In quick short sentences Thatcher reproduced their script, culled from remembered accounts by Dunlop, Marsden, and Armitage. Together they mimed a series of actions. Then, in response to a muffled yelp of time from outside, John opened the door. “Now Elliot you and the rest of the Committee start talking with the boys. Right Pete?”
It was right. Lucy settled down once again. Pete, opposite her, looked eager and alert. In an undertone, he described the disposition of his fellow applicants, together with the rest of the Committee.