Brewing Up a Storm

by Deaver Brown

  “Not a bad job, all things considered. But the kids let you off easy.”

  Art Masling, veteran Wall Street journeyman, was one of the more raffish figures in Benda’s network. For reasons that could only be contrarian, he periodically touted Kichsel. Since he had a loyal if misguided following, his “buy” recommendations meant he had to be treated like an old friend.

  “I thought it went pretty well,” Benda confessed.

  “Considering that you’re in deep shit about a murder, you’ve got all hell breaking loose about Quax and the police have questioned the Kichsels themselves, you managed to finesse a lot.”

  “Thanks,” said Benda. Brickbats from Masling were currently the least of his worries, but he felt obliged to continue. “Put like that, it sounds bad. But don’t get carried away by appearances. Basically the situation at Kichsel is looking better than it has for at least the last year or two.”

  Masling, a hard-core cynic, smiled to indicate that in similar circumstances he too would shade the truth. He would have been stunned to learn that Theo Benda actually believed every word he uttered.

  Chapter 17.

  Empties

  For the next forty-eight hours the burning issue of Quax made virtually no demands on John Thatcher’s time. He was both gratified and suspicious. If Dean Kichsel had regarded the Rugby riot as sufficiently important to require counsel, it was certainly odd that the murder of Quax’s most voluble opponent should be allowed to pass without comment. On the other hand, George Lancer, drawn and wan, had finally dragged himself back to the Sloan, so future cries for help would presumably be directed to him.

  But if Thatcher was willing to accept the gift of the gods, Charlie Trinkam immediately set to work to crack the wall of silence. That afternoon he breezed into Thatcher’s office with Paul Jackson in tow, only to stop short on the threshold.

  “George! It’s good to have you back,” he cried delightedly. “You look absolutely awful.”

  Years ago Thatcher had noticed that Charlie Trinkam’s welcome to recent flu victims was gender-linked. He told all women that they looked wonderful and all men that they looked rotten. Upon inquiry he had explained his goal was simply to give pleasure. Women required reassurance about their appearance while men, afraid of being labeled as wimps, appreciated any recognition of the severity of their ordeal.

  Certainly Lancer did not seem displeased as he explained that he was bringing himself up to speed on developments during his absence.

  “Then you’ll be interested in this,” Charlie told him. “It looks as if Madeleine Underwood’s killer may be one of your buddies from the brewery.”

  “How can you discuss this, Paul?” Thatcher objected. “I thought you were Kichsel’s lawyer.”

  “But not Alec Moore’s,” Jackson replied, answering at least one question. “Besides, this is common knowledge by now. The police have been asking too many questions of the committee staff and at the public library.”

  Lancer blinked in confusion. “The public library?”

  Briefly Jackson outlined Alec Moore’s original account of his activities after the committee adjournment.

  “But the cops have blown that story sky-high. Moore never did try to call his son. What’s more, the library computer he claimed to be using was down that day. To top it off, there was a regular patron in the reference section who’s prepared to swear that nobody like Moore was there during the lunch break.”

  “So what story has Moore come up with now?” Thatcher asked.

  “None. He’s decided to sit pat. He says the person he called and the things he did are his personal business and he’s not telling the cops one word.”

  George Lancer wagged his head disapprovingly. “That seems foolhardy in the extreme.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the expert. “Refusing to say anything gives you a lot of flexibility later if you need it. Moore got stung once, so he’s not trying again. Actually he would have been better off to keep mum from the beginning.”

  Thatcher was perfectly willing to accept Jackson’s evaluation if a criminal trial was in the offing. Otherwise, Moore’s intransigence could raise all sorts of difficulties.

  “Starting with his boss,” Jackson agreed. “Kichsel is hopping around like a flea. When he couldn’t get a word of explanation from Moore, he called me in to recommend a criminal attorney. But Moore isn’t having any of that. He says he didn’t kill the woman, he’s just protecting his private life.”

  “I can see that lying about his whereabouts would attract police attention, but how serious can things be in the absence of any motive?” Thatcher asked. “After all, Madeleine Underwood was rapidly destroying her own credibility and that of her organization. Why should Moore kill her?”

  Charlie chortled merrily. “Now that is where things really get interesting. Tell them, Paul.”

  “The police are focusing on the quarrel with Underwood. Particularly what she said about investigating people at Kichsel.”

  “They’ve already been to see me about it,” Thatcher admitted.

  “How well do you remember what she said?” Jackson asked.

  Obediently Thatcher parroted the memories that had been stirred to life during his interrogation.

  “The real question is,” Jackson pressed, “which one was she talking about? Moore? Fentiman? Or both?”

  “She had been exchanging insults alternately with both of them. Then she said: ‘You think I don’t know all about you, but I’ve had you investigated. I’ve found out your dirty little secrets.’” After a moment’s thought Thatcher shrugged. “Given the fact that you can be singular or plural, she could have had anything in mind. At the time Moore seemed to think it was directed at him.”

  “Aha! That’s the puzzler. When the cops got to work they found a nasty divorce in Claudia Fentiman’s past—one of those custody battles claiming she was an unfit mother. She admits she thought that’s what Underwood was referring to. Now Moore says he assumed the same thing and he was defending Fentiman when he snapped back at Underwood. But a lot of witnesses beside you say, at the time, it looked as if he thought he was the target.”

  As always, George Lancer was scrupulously fair. “Even if he did, he could be covering something minor. Certainly the blot on Mrs. Fentiman’s record is not very serious.”

  “Hell, no,” agreed Jackson. “It sounds to me like the usual divorce wrangle where, nine times out of ten, the unfit-mother business is mostly a maneuver in the property settlement.”

  “Then Alec Moore may have a similar peccadillo in his past.”

  “Not exactly similar,” Jackson countered. “First, Claudia didn’t make a deep dark secret of her little trouble. Moore and some others back home already knew about it. Second, even at this stage of the game, Moore is unwilling to take Kichsel into his confidence. He’s being a lot more close-mouthed than Claudia found necessary.”

  “To the point of arousing police suspicion in a murder case,” Thatcher chimed in.

  Bright-eyed as ever, Charlie took this reasoning even further. “Which means that it has to be something that could have a serious impact on his future.” Conscious of the simmering excitement shared by Trinkam and Jackson, Thatcher murmured, “And why do I suspect that you and Paul have some notion what Moore’s secret could be?”

  “It was Paul’s idea,” Charlie said modestly.

  “And that’s all it is,” Jackson hastened to say. “But I was thinking about all those charges the Underwood woman was slinging around. It’s always possible that she hit the bull’s-eye without even realizing it.”

  Thatcher did not bother with the list of Madeleine’s wild accusations. “Which one are we talking about?”

  “I haven’t known Moore as long as you have,” the lawyer said with a glance at George Lancer, “but I have gotten his flavor. Enough to wonder if, after all, he might have been behind the Ludlums.”

  “That would mean you had been gulled as well as everyone else,” Thatcher remarke
d acutely.

  “Believe me, the thought doesn’t come easy,” Jackson confessed.

  All eyes turned to Lancer for the definitive character analysis. Thatcher was expecting an instant rebuttal but it did not come. Only after several moments of frowning thought did George speak.

  “I can’t say that it seems totally impossible,” he said reluctantly. “There’s a certain quality about Moore that’s difficult to put into words, but I’ve seen it before in men who come to business late in life.”

  Thatcher had seen it too.

  “Because they succeed with one good idea, they tend to regard themselves as much cleverer than the fuddy-duddies who’ve been there for years,” he suggested.

  “Alec certainly underrates both Kichsel and Theo Benda. Furthermore, he’s made a fetish of disregarding everything except the hard facts. As a result he never considers how his actions may be viewed.”

  Thatcher remembered Claudia’s lecture to Moore on the difference between approaching customers and preaching in the public arena.

  “So he might resort to tactics that would be regarded as imprudent or even unprincipled by others?”

  All this pussyfooting was making Paul Jackson impatient. “What it boils down to,” he said relentlessly, “is simple. Does he have the kind of sophomoric, dirty-tricks mentality that would think it was real smart to set up Underwood with the Ludlum family?”

  Instead of answering directly, Lancer searched for practical objections. “But how would he know about the Ludlums?”

  “No problem there. If you’d been following me in court, you’d know that Daddy Ludlum’s form of grieving was to hike over to the liquor store where his son bought the beer and announce he was going to sue them. It never came to anything, but the store owner warned Kichsel headquarters and the letter ended up on Moore’s desk. That’s how I found out about it.”

  Lancer was looking more and more unhappy. “It scarcely seems possible but there’s no denying that Moore was enthusiastic about the suit from the beginning. Dean was worried about it but Alec insisted it was a golden opportunity for free publicity.”

  “And he was right,” Jackson pointed out quietly. “He told me that demand for Quax in the metropolitan area skyrocketed.”

  Now that they had reached the really delicate ground, Charlie and Jackson were signaling that the rest was up to Thatcher.

  “Granting for a moment that Moore might have allowed himself to use the Ludlums, then how damaging would exposure of his role be?” he said dutifully.

  “Very.”

  “From what you said the other day, Moore seems to have high ambitions,” Thatcher continued.

  “Yes, Quax has been so successful that, with Dean planning to retire in two years, Alec has begun to think of himself as a natural successor. He doesn’t seem to understand that his lack of experience in the crucial part of Kichsel’s operation is a barrier. Instead he sees himself as a rival to Theo Benda.”

  Charlie could no longer contain himself. “And if his part in some dirty tricks surfaced?”

  Lancer sighed. “He could not only say good-bye to the presidency, his entire future at Kichsel would be jeopardized.”

  That admission was all Paul Jackson needed to enunciate the obvious.

  “Now there’s the kind of motive that cops can really appreciate.”

  Iona Perez had already begun the salvage operation NOBBY needed so desperately. But she was not receiving a warm welcome in Roger Vandermeer’s office.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Mrs. Perez,” he said as soon as she was seated. “I wouldn’t even have agreed to see you if you hadn’t told me you were already coming to Washington for a meeting with Harry Hull. I could have told you over the phone that, as far as I’m concerned, NOBBY is poison.”

  As he spoke he was watching her warily. At the first shrill outburst he was ready to bundle her off the premises.

  But Iona knew very well that all the reasoned arguments, all the cajolery must be deferred. Her first task, wherever she went, was convincing people that they were not dealing with another Madeleine Underwood.

  “That’s a very natural reaction,” she said gravely. “We do realize at headquarters that our most important priority is eradicating the impression caused by that riot. It’s not just a matter of outsiders; our own membership was deeply shocked.”

  “Oh, that’s just great! You want me to give money to an outfit that’s not only alienated the public, but its members as well.”

  “Reassuring our own people is the easiest part of the job. Fortunately they’re well acquainted with our past record. As soon as they’ve recovered from their initial indignation, they’ll realize that this was an aberration caused by Madeleine and one that will never happen again.”

  Vandermeer had begun to relax. Denying requests had never been difficult for him, and as long as he was spared a hysterical woman, he had no objection to spending ten minutes on the task.

  “You’ve got a lot more on your plate than that,” he said bluntly. “The police think somebody at your headquarters hasn’t been keeping his hands in his pockets. I’m not in favor of that kind of private enterprise.”

  As sedate as ever she said, “We wouldn’t dream of asking for further contributions until that misconception has been cleared up. The auditors are at work now and it shouldn’t take them much longer to finish. But while we’re on the subject of donations, I should add that we’re also addressing the problem of contingent liabilities. We realize they could look like a bottomless pit.”

  The discussion was not going the way Vandermeer had anticipated. Usually when refusing solicitations he was punching holes in somebody’s presentation. Today the suppliant was positively parading all difficulties.

  “Rugby could take you for everything you’ve got.”

  “Which is why we’ve started with him. The chairman of our governors is quite pleased with the way things are going. Nothing’s been decided yet, but Mr. Rugby is a reasonable man, not anxious for a drawn-out legal battle.”

  It was second nature for Vandermeer to jab at weak spots.

  “Considering how that Ludlum case blew up in your face, I suppose you aren’t either.”

  “Far from it. And of course we’ve already notified the attorneys that we’re withdrawing from that case.”

  Baffled by her ready agreement, Vandermeer shrugged. “So what does it all amount to? You’re trying to exercise some damage control. But a few sandbags aren’t going to stop this flood.”

  Neatly she moved from confession of past error to future plans.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Given a fair settlement with Rugby’s, we’ll have enough funds on hand to launch our drive for national membership. With luck we can start in a few weeks.”

  “Planning bigger and better protests?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Any public demonstrations by NOBBY are out of the question for some time. But I’ve always felt that we’ve been neglecting supermarkets. A first step would obviously be a letter-writing campaign by our members. However, in order to have a greater impact, I intend to organize wholesale canvassing so that the volunteers can present petitions signed by a big percentage of the regular customers. There are always plenty of people who endorse the goals of a movement but who don’t take an active part. They’re the ones who’ll sign.”

  Suppressing an involuntary flicker of interest, he said neutrally, “It’s not a bad idea.”

  “Ideally we would like to have Quax removed from all soft-drink sections. That’s probably too much to hope for. But,” she continued dulcetly, “it would be very gratifying to see Quax relocated to the beer sections where they exist.”

  By now Vandermeer was looking bemused. Madeleine Underwood would never have understood the basics of the war for shelf space. With this one, he was not so sure.

  “I’m not saying that we don’t share some of the same goals,” he conceded. “But new consumer groups can be formed. Now that NOBBY’s fouled its own ne
st it makes more sense for us to go that way. And we’ve got the money and the manpower to do it.”

  Far from being flattened, Iona shook her head almost reproachfully. “But you can’t do it overnight. It will take you over a year to field the kind of effort NOBBY can make in the next three months. And Quax is gaining ground every day. Once it’s established as a national favorite, it will be too late to start writing letters. If you’re going to do anything effective with consumers, you have to do it now with a working operation.”

  Vandermeer did not enjoy conversations in which the weakness of his own position was explored. Moreover, that low, melodious voice was damn near hypnotizing him into agreeing that NOBBY’s problems were of manageable dimensions.

  “No way,” he said decisively. “The audit and even the settlement with Rugby may come out okay. But there’s still a wild card in the deck. You’ve got a murder investigation right in your backyard.”

  For this objection she had no answer. She could only protest that, as NOBBY did not house the murderer, its future usefulness would not be impaired by the result of any investigation.

  “Listen, there are more motives lying around your place than any other. Maybe you’d like to pretend Underwood was so dangerous that the CEO of Kichsel bopped her. But hell! The woman was killing herself. Face it. Nobody can tell what’s coming out of the woodwork on this one. And I’m sure not advising my client to buy that kind of pig in the poke.”

  Rising, he automatically reverted to his standard professional geniality. “Sorry I can’t help you out, but it’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Iona.”

  She was careful to produce a pleasant smile as they shook hands.

  “Who knows, Roger? We may yet be doing business together.”

  Chapter 18.

  A Real Bash

  Iona’s second appointment of the day was intended to be a replica of the first and, at the beginning, it was.

  “I should explain one thing,” said Harry Hull. “If you hadn’t already had a meeting scheduled with Roger Vandermeer, I would have told you it was a waste of time coming down here to see me.”