by Deaver Brown
“And,” caroled Charlie, “she didn’t tell the people at NOBBY. That’s one of the things that made Perez sore. After the riot nobody could find Underwood.”
Thatcher frowned reproachfully. “We’ll come to that, Charlie. Right now we’re establishing a sequence.”
“Well, she was still at the top of her form then,” Reardon amplified. “When she ran into Congressman Hull, they had a drink together. She thought she should have a meeting with the chairman so she could tell him how to run the hearings.”
“Still the same old Madeleine,” Charlie said irrepressibly.
Reardon grinned in approval. He was finding Trinkam a welcome antidote to the ordinary run of witnesses.
“It gets better,” he promised. “Hull took her up to his room to show her some report and listen to her idiot suggestions. When Roger Vandermeer turned up for an appointment, she had to be levered out of the place.”
“I’ll bet she did,” Charlie agreed. “Peggy says Underwood hated the idea of anybody discussing the anti-Quax campaign when she wasn’t there. At one point she tried to get the governors to tape their talks among themselves.”
“How awkward for Hull and Vandermeer,” Thatcher remarked. “They could scarcely tell her that their session was about containing the damage caused by her silliness on the stand.”
This time it was Reardon sternly returning them to duty. “I thought you wanted to do this as a time sequence. She even left her briefcase in Hull’s room so she could come back and pump him after Vandermeer left. Of course as soon as Hull saw who was at the door he said he was on his way out. But get this. The brush-off didn’t bother her. Both Hull and the chambermaid in the hall agree that Underwood was still chipper as hell. Even while she ducked in to get her case she was telling Hull that they’d have to get together some other time. Unfortunately we lose her after that. All we know is that she didn’t eat in the hotel. She could have met anybody that night.”
“It must have been a wingdinger of a meeting,” said Charlie, nodding in appreciation. “Because, bright and early on Tuesday morning, she raises Cain with Sean Cushing, then rushes off to start a riot.”
At last Reardon was prepared to release new information. “Yeah, but she was still feeling her oats because after Rugby’s she went to the law firm handling the Ludlum case. They were still reeling from Jackson’s firecracker and none too pleased to see her.”
“Ha!” Charlie snorted. “Just think how they would have felt if they’d known what was going on across town. Her people were being carted off to the hoosegow about then.”
“They didn’t find that out until after she’d left and calls started coming in from people trying to locate her. But they were annoyed enough anyhow. Seems she was shrugging off the case, saying it was just another betrayal.”
Until now Charlie had been a neutral bystander, deriving what pleasure he could from the recital of Madeleine Underwood’s antics. Now he announced his allegiance.
“In other words, she was making the same pitch as at Rugby’s—all that business about dark forces ganging up on her.”
Reardon was prepared to set out facts; he was not enthusiastic about character analysis. “She left the lawyers about a quarter to five and went back to her hotel. After she had dinner there at six-thirty we lose sight of her briefly. But we know she was in her room at nine o’clock when she called her son in California. That, incidentally, was the only charge for an outgoing call.”
“And of course you’ve checked with the son,” Thatcher said perfunctorily.
“Sure, but she just talked about some trip to the coast she was planning. Nothing about what she was up to that evening.”
Thatcher dismissed not only the son, but the entire evening. “The more I think, the surer I am that the damage was done on Monday night.”
“Why? She was still steamed on Wednesday. She turned up at the hearings ready to take on everybody in sight.”
“Because the most important thing in the world to Madeleine Underwood was NOBBY. And it was on Tuesday morning that she reversed its central policy. Also, on that day, both at Rugby’s and at the attorneys’, she was seeing herself as the victim of some sort of conspiracy.”
Reluctantly Reardon nodded. “I admit you’ve got a point. My boys have been going through all the junk stacked at NOBBY. It’s useless as far as a murder motive goes, but one thing comes through loud and clear. Underwood was leading the fight against Quax and enjoying every minute of it.”
Charlie had risen to drift behind Thatcher and peer at the notepad.
“Well, if John’s right, look how things have narrowed down. All you have to do is find out what Underwood was doing on Monday night and who she was doing it with.”
“That’s not so easy. We’ve already tried getting at it from the other end, but it’s no go. News about the courtroom boo-boo had been spreading and almost everybody was busy. Rossi had called a meeting of committee members that didn’t break up until after eleven. The soft-drink people were huddled with Vandermeer a couple of blocks away. And as for the Kichsel bunch . . .”
He allowed his voice to trail away and looked expectantly across the desk. With a start Thatcher realized that he was being asked for corroboration. “Good heavens, I’d forgotten. We were all, including Elmer Rugby, at Paul Jackson’s victory celebration.”
Reardon was now a monument to long-suffering patience. “With Cushing out on a date and Perez home with her family, you see where that leaves me. Madeleine Underwood simply stepped out into a city of nine million people and disappeared.”
“Taxis?” Thatcher suggested without much hope.
“She didn’t take one, at least not from the hotel. Face it, we may never know what she was doing.”
But Charlie Trinkam, who had withdrawn again into a study of the notepad, now lifted his face with a broad grin.
“Dummies, both of you,” he said amiably.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” growled Reardon.
“You did say she checked into a hotel on the spur of the moment, didn’t you? The woman had to go home to get some clothes.”
And, swifter than conscious thought, Thatcher’s mind produced the twin images of Madeleine in her summer dress at the riot and Madeleine in her pool of isolation after the adjournment was announced.
“Lord, of course! She was in red on Wednesday.”
Faced with an avalanche of wardrobe detail, Reardon slowly nodded. “You’re probably right. We’ll check with the hotel. But she could have seen anybody in New Jersey.”
“Not with all your witnesses tied up,” Thatcher reminded him.
Reardon’s face brightened. “And if she called anybody in New York, it will have been a long-distance call. I think I’ll get busy on this.”
• • •
“It’s a good thing you joined us, Charlie,” Thatcher remarked as soon as Reardon left. “The woman’s clothing was staring me in the face and I never thought of it.”
But Charlie had recovered from his first flush of triumph. “Where does it really get us? We would have done better to have a psychiatrist sitting in here. The place is lousy with people having mood swings.”
“But scarcely the kind that calls for deep analysis. Moore, for some reason, refused to explain his alibi. That made him enough of a murder suspect to worry him. When he could clear himself he was relieved. Cushing, suspected of embezzlement, remained edgy until he was proved innocent. Iona Perez was nervous at the beginning of her promotion and is now settling down.”
“That’s one way of describing these people,” Charlie retorted. “Now here’s another. Moore was verging on clinical depression and has swung into wild euphoria. If he knew all along he could clear himself, why go into a fugue? And the same holds true for Cushing. As for Perez, she isn’t settling in, she’s tanking over everybody. And then we come to the really batty one, Madeleine herself.”
Thatcher was not going to fight this last illustration. “No one is claiming her last t
hree days were an exercise in common sense.”
“Oh, it started before then. She didn’t have the sense to know when to be depressed. There she was, bombing all over the place, and instead of being down she was up.”
He could have expanded this indictment but Thatcher, stiffening, suddenly snapped, “Repeat that!”
Obediently Charlie recited, “Instead of being down when things weren’t going her way, she was up. Everyone at the hearings agreed she’d made a fool of herself, but she never noticed. She thought. . .”
He let his voice trail away when it became apparent that he had lost his audience. John Thatcher had once again seized his notepad and was staring at one line, transfixed. When he broke free from his reverie he produced a non sequitur.
“Everyone says that Madeleine Underwood behaved badly.”
Charlie Trinkam was well established at the Sloan as an admirer of the opposite sex. But he was also a financial conservative. His broad tolerance did not extend to feminine disruption of standard business practices.
“The woman was a menace. She hires experienced lawyers and tries to second-guess them. She thinks a congressional chairman is her junior staff. She unleashes private detectives to dig up personal dirt. That’s a woman who thinks she’s so important the rules don’t apply to her.”
“The question is, just how badly would she behave?”
“She’d pull anything she could get away with and think she was perfectly justified.”
Thatcher nodded, a grim smile creasing his face. “I think you’ve just solved a murder.”
Charlie was piqued. “That would be more gratifying, John, if I knew what the hell you were talking about.”
When Thatcher told him, however, Trinkam instantly transformed himself into a devil’s advocate. The volley of objections he produced merely increased Thatcher’s conviction. With every sentence another compelling vignette sprang to life in support of his theory. There was the committee staff outdoing each other in a recital of Madeleine Underwood’s exorbitant demands, there was Peggy Roche ruefully confessing the shortcomings of NOBBY’s director and there was, mercifully obscured, the final scene—Madeleine’s body crumpled on a closet floor.
At the end of an hour’s hard work, Charlie was convinced.
“It all fits,” he finally acknowledged. “And it explains everything. But you do realize, John, that there’s not a scintilla of proof?”
Exhausted by his logical exposition, Thatcher had slumped in his chair and was staring dreamily at the ceiling.
“Not yet,” he said in a faraway voice. “That’s the beauty of this, though. If I’m right, the police have their proof. If I’m wrong, they haven’t made any waves. After all, we not only know where to look, but what to look for.”
Charlie felt it was too early to rest on their laurels. Reaching out a hand, he pushed the desk phone closer to Thatcher.
“Then maybe, John,” he said gently, “it’s time to let Reardon in on this.”
Chapter 24.
Chug-a-Lug
Within twenty-four hours the police had confirmed Thatcher’s theory and it remained only to flush out the killer. Fortunately, the ideal occasion for misdirection was at hand. The hoopla surrounding the joint announcement of the Rugby-NOBBY settlement would have turned Madeleine Underwood green with envy. Promised another appearance by Theresa Dominguez, a proven human-interest feature, the media was willing to turn out in force. And with this enticement Elmer Rugby had no difficulty securing the presence of a swarm of illustrious guests, all scenting an opportunity to make their views public. To extend the event as long as possible, a bar and refreshment table were waiting in the wings while the microphones had been arranged to accommodate three speakers—Elmer Rugby, Iona Perez and Theresa.
At first Iona had objected to this selection.
“You should be the one up there,” she told Peggy Roche.
“Oh, no, you don’t. As long as that girl is wearing a neck brace, we’re going to show the world that NOBBY has taken its knocks too.”
So Elmer, flanked by two battle casualties, looked ruddier and healthier than ever. Making full use of his position as official host, he got his shots in first but he did so without straining anyone’s patience. After briefly outlining the details of the college fund, he told the world that Rugby’s was only too happy to waive its legal claims on behalf of its misused employee.
Iona Perez did not match his brevity. Reminding everybody of NOBBY’s impeccable record prior to the riot, she produced the long-delayed mea culpa that should have been forthcoming that night.
“. . . one grievous moment of misconduct on the part of our late director . . . deplored by us all . . . never to be repeated . . . willing to accept our responsibility to the unfortunate victims of this mishap.”
Then, with a deep breath, she sounded the drums for the new NOBBY.
“Our first and foremost concern has always been the welfare of youth. Nothing could please us more than an agreement allowing us to make restitution in a form that promises long-term benefits to such a deserving young person.”
Everybody was champing at the bit by the time she finished. Then, predictably, Theresa Dominguez and her mother stole the show. If they had been attractive at the hospital, they were irresistible in their moment of joy. Theresa stood revealed as the possessor of enormous shining dark eyes and Mrs. Dominguez, bowed by privation and toil, was incandescent with a glow that transcended all language barriers.
It was the stuff of which reporters dream, as Roger Vandermeer explained at length to Thatcher as soon as the official program was over.
“That’s a smart move by Rugby, particularly when he’s developing the Northeast market. The PR will be worth millions to him.”
“And NOBBY isn’t coming out of this badly either.”
“Turning bad publicity into good publicity, that’s a real trick,” Vandermeer said sagely. “I didn’t think they had it in them.”
Unfortunately he felt impelled to repeat every syllable of his commendation when Peggy Roche appeared with Harry Hull in tow. Having her own reasons for keeping SDI sweet, she listened with every evidence of gratified interest.
“So you think we should keep in touch with her while she’s in college in case there’s a chance for additional publicity?”
“I’ll bet Rugby will.”
But Peggy, in spite of her apparent docility, was keeping an eye on the passing parade. As soon as Alec Moore and Claudia Fentiman came into view, she broke off her own remarks to hail them.
“We owe you a personal apology for Madeleine’s conduct at the hearings. As for those private detectives, let me assure you that the board knew as little about that as we did about her plans for Rugby’s.”
“We could tell you had a real fruitcake on your hands,” Alec responded cheerfully.
“You’re right there. And what annoys me the most is that I called Madeleine at her home the night before the riot. If I’d known half of what she had in mind I could have stopped her in her tracks. But she didn’t tell me a thing, she didn’t even tell me she’d moved into a hotel. Instead she jabbered about the clothes that she was going to wear.”
Claudia Fentiman handsomely remarked that knowing what was in Madeleine Underwood’s mind had been beyond the capacity of any sane person. Alec Moore, however, choosing to ignore this exchange, explained that the basic conflict continued.
“We’re selling Quax and you’re trying to stop us,” he said to Peggy, as if this had escaped her attention. “Sending the Dominguez girl to college doesn’t make any difference. You may have scored a few points today, but so what?”
“Everybody knows that, Alec,” Claudia said crisply. “But now is not the ideal moment to say so.”
“I don’t see why not. The facts are simple enough. Underwood never had any real ammunition because Quax is perfectly harmless. And now that NOBBY’s backing off from violence, they’re dead in the water.”
And bestowing a sunny smile on t
he gathering, he drew Claudia off toward the refreshment area.
Moore, Thatcher reflected, was perfectly capable of alienating the press and, through them, the entire American consumer market. But his jab had found its mark.
“People don’t forget, do they?” Peggy Roche lamented. “We’ll be paying for Madeleine’s last two days forever.”
Automatically Vandermeer reverted to his role as her mentor.
“Look, there are always unexpected foul-ups. The name of the game is learning how to make a decent recovery.”
“And that’s what we expect to do,” she replied, neatly modulating into her real theme. “I think you’ll find that this wave of publicity is just what we need to make our national drive a success. With all the networks here, there will be coverage in . . .”
Over her shoulder Harry Hull exchanged a glance of fellow-suffering with Thatcher and jerked his chin suggestively toward the door. Together the two men gently drifted away.
“I’ll say one thing for that NOBBY bunch. They never give up,” Hull grunted as soon as they were safely out of earshot. “She’ll be handing Roger a hard sell for the next ten minutes.”
“And she may well be successful.”
For a moment Hull looked dubious, then: “I suppose you could be right. No matter what happens, Roger has to worry about selling soft drinks, so it may work with him. I doubt if it will with Leon, though. He’s still gun-shy.”
But to speak of Leon Rossi was to look for him. When Hull caught sight of the chairman surrounded by a mob of reporters, he hastily made his farewells and set off across the room.
Free at last of companions busily pursuing their own interests, Thatcher was able to make his way to the bar, where he found Elmer Rugby happily presiding over his guests.
“A very nice job, Elmer,” Thatcher said warmly. “You not only got your big turnout, but the press is still here picking up quotes.”
It seemed as if, in every corner of the room, someone was expressing public approval of the day’s work. Unseen, but perfectly audible, Dean Kichsel was announcing his satisfaction in a deep, baying tone.