by Deaver Brown
“Of course the Kichsel Brewery is pleased. We recognize that there is always room for the expression of differing sentiments. I have no quarrel with NOBBY’s activities as long as they remain responsible and law-abiding. And no better purpose could be served by this settlement than by giving young Miss Dominguez a real chance at fulfilling her potential.”
Closer to hand, Iona Perez was supplying a musical accompaniment.
“So happy that everything has worked out this way . . . membership really excited about the opportunity to perform such a valuable service . . . always glad to see one of our young people setting out on the right track.”
But as she had been largely unavailable since the break-in, the press wanted more from her than views on the settlement. Soon she was describing her ordeal.
“It was too dark for anything except a general impression . . . yes, of course, I was terrified . . . think I’m lucky to have nothing worse than a broken wrist . . .”
Elmer, who insisted on parading around the room with a proprietary air, was exultant when the largest group of reporters was discovered clustered around the Dominguez women.
“You don’t think they could use a little support from you?” Thatcher asked.
“Just listen to her,” was the reply. “That little girl doesn’t need help from anybody.”
And from the middle of the group came a breathless, excited voice.
“I don’t know yet. There are so many colleges and I never thought I could go. So, you see, I never found out much about them.”
Then, loud and clear, the voice expanded on a wave of enthusiasm.
“But the guidance counselor at Rugby’s has been advising me. She says my marks are good enough to apply anywhere. Even to Harvard and Stanford!”
Thatcher examined Elmer Rugby with new appreciation. “I didn’t know you had guidance counselors.”
Elmer was smug. “We hire a lot of inner-city kids who don’t know which way is up. So we started the program in San Antonio, where there’s a feeder college on public transport. Of course, usually the counselor concentrates on making them finish high school and maybe go on to a vocational course. Not many of them are like Theresa.”
“It was still a good idea to tell her to push your program.”
“Like hell,” said a reproachful Rugby. “With some people you have to break your back explaining what you want. Theresa knows without your saying a word. And she understands in her bones the principle of giving good value.”
“Her mother is no slouch either,” remarked a new voice as Charlie Trinkam materialized from the throng. “I’ve just been listening to her explain, in broken English, that naturally they’ll all miss Theresa. But Elena is such a good girl and she’s going to take Theresa’s place. That’s the next daughter.”
“I know,” Elmer riposted. “She’s starting work for us next month.”
“Well, you’re certainly playing this right,” Charlie congratulated his client, “but you were damned lucky in your victim.”
“Don’t I know it. The busboy who was standing behind Theresa when the glass went is a real washout. We couldn’t have done a thing with him. But this family is a find.”
Elmer’s fervor had made Charlie suspicious.
“Just how far ahead are you thinking?”
Elmer was as near smirking as was possible for him. “I haven’t broken it to NOBBY, but Theresa intends to do pre-med.”
While Charlie expostulated, Thatcher found himself wondering if even that was to be the end of it. Or was Elmer planning to work his way through the whole string of Mrs. Dominguez’s offspring? This settlement, Thatcher decided, was unique. Theresa Dominguez might be the chief beneficiary on paper, but NOBBY and Elmer were almost as pleased with their lot. And how often does that happen?
But Elmer, even on a tide of well-being, had not forgotten other items on his list.
“Good, there’s Cushing,” he announced, indicating the NOBBY administrator making his way over to the congressional contingent. “I’ve been trying to get hold of him.”
“Nine chances out of ten he’s there to sell them on NOBBY,” Charlie warned.
“I don’t care what he does on the side, but first he’s got business with me. The settlement is fine, but I want to see that money in the escrow account.”
When one has invited the press, however, they have to take pride of place. Settling himself directly in front of Sean Cushing, Rugby was obliged to wait out Harry Hull’s informal comments to the nation.
“. . . heartening to see the real good that can be accomplished when confrontation gives way to negotiation. Miss Dominguez is not the only winner here today,” he said, blithely ignoring the fact that, if such had been the case, there would have been no settlement. “Both parties to this agreement can be proud of what they have accomplished.”
Every trade has its own standards.
“Good,” said Leon Rossi as soon as the press had departed to find fodder elsewhere. “You managed to avoid mentioning NOBBY at all.”
“Oh, come on,” protested Cushing. “NOBBY’s going to come out of this smelling like roses.”
“It will as soon as we get all the details tied up,” said Rugby, seizing his moment. “I still don’t understand why we have to let two days pass before my accountants can get together with you.”
A week ago Sean Cushing had been tensing at the sound of every accusatory voice but, like almost everybody else in the room, he was enjoying a new access of confidence. Feet spread, chest out, he had been examining the crowd benignly as Harry Hull delivered his set piece. Now he was almost indulgent.
“But I told you Madeleine’s son has arranged the funeral for the day after tomorrow. It’s way the hell out in New Jersey and we’ll be tied up all day. There’s no way I can duck, not with this big an affair. You might consider coming yourself.”
Thatcher was amused to see Leon Rossi’s eyebrows vigorously signaling to his younger colleague. Apparently this was going to be the one public funeral in the metropolitan area that would not be graced by the chairman’s presence. He was probably busily inventing a prior commitment, but Elmer was more direct.
“Fat chance,” he said stoutly. “All right, I’ll give you Thursday, but what’s wrong with tomorrow?”
“Bill Underwood doesn’t have that much time and he wants to get Madeleine’s house ready so they can auction off the contents. I said I’d go out there with him tomorrow and haul away the NOBBY stuff.”
Rugby frowned in suspicion. “Mrs. Perez told me she was going to do that.”
“I persuaded her not to,” Sean said blandly. “Does she look in any condition to do heavy lifting? There’ll probably be cartons of the stuff. But I can be with you bright and early on Friday.”
Even Elmer could scarcely characterize two solid days with the bereaved as goldbricking. Grumbling, he yielded the point and was even capable of sardonic amusement when Sean immediately returned to the attack on Leon Rossi, assuring him that NOBBY’s future obligations to Miss Dominguez would be met with maximum fanfare.
“You know it was that little Perez woman who saw the possibilities in this settlement right off the bat,” Rugby told his companions as soon as they left the congressmen to their fate. “And she’s done a fine job selling the rest of her bunch.”
His good humor was further restored when he himself became the target of roving microphones with questions about Rugby’s guidance counselors.
“. . . in all metropolitan areas . . . minimum-wage jobs are no solution to the problem . . . teenagers present a special case, particularly if the job can be used to slot them into an ongoing education program . . .”
“God, Elmer will go on as long as anybody will listen to him,” Charlie muttered in an undertone.
“And he doesn’t need our help to do it,” Thatcher replied, striding firmly off.
They were rewarded several moments later when they found Iona Perez exercising her persuasive talents on an unlikely subject.
“Eleven o’clock at the Presbyterian church,” she was saying as Theo Benda scribbled in his appointment book. “The cemetery is some distance away, but we’ll have plenty of extra cars on tap.”
Charlie, incredulous, moved forward as soon as she sped off on her recruitment rounds.
“Are you really going to trek all the way out there for this shindig?”
“It might not be a bad idea,” Benda said soberly. “We came here today to spread sweetness and light, but it isn’t easy with Alec behaving like a horse’s ass.”
“I heard him briefly myself,” Thatcher observed absently, registering Benda’s first open criticism of Quax’s division manager. Of course the change in approach was understandable. As long as Alec Moore was a police target, Kichsel itself was threatened, and solidarity was the name of the game. Now that those clouds had dissipated, frankness was permissible.
Charlie had swiveled to examine the crowd. “Moore doesn’t seem to be in action anymore.”
“Claudia took him away. She’s probably explaining to him somewhere that it isn’t a good idea to rain on your customer’s parade.”
“Then she did the right thing,” Charlie said.
“I told her to. Alec doesn’t realize that we’re all walking on tiptoe today. It was smart of Rugby to provide all this dilution,” Benda continued, waving at the surrounding crowd, “but it doesn’t alter the situation. Camouflage or not, he’s brought together every single person concerned with Madeleine Underwood’s murder.”
Nodding silently, neither Thatcher nor Charlie felt obliged to point out the one significant absentee.
Inspector Timothy Reardon was a long way away.
Chapter 25.
With a Chaser
Even as the bait was being dangled during Elmer Rugby’s conference, the police were arming the trap in New Jersey. Inspector Reardon had been surprised at the early hours prescribed by the local force.
“Rugby’s promised to keep things going until six,” he pointed out. “Nobody can possibly get here before seven-thirty.”
“It’s the neighbors I’m worried about,” the chief replied. “If we pile into that house and remove our car, the whole block will know it’s a police bust. They’ll sit up all night with lights blazing to watch. Hell, they’ll probably lay on a buffet and invite friends over.”
Reardon, accustomed to the mass anonymity of Manhattan, welcomed any information he could get on suburban customs. “Whatever you say.”
“Then we’ll use some camouflage and be in place by five-thirty.”
Accordingly Reardon arrived in a truck emblazoned with the logo of the cleaning firm employed by Madeleine Underwood.
“Everybody knows the house is going up for sale. They’ll just think we’re getting it in shape,” explained the chief, virtually invisible behind the carpet shampooer he had hoisted to the shoulder of his coveralls.
To Reardon’s critical eye the Underwood house seemed ideal for their purposes. It was a substantial Colonial in the older part of town. Set on half an acre, it was surrounded by well-established landscaping that included lofty trees and mature bushes. On the street side a semicircular drive, defined by massive plantings of flowering shrubbery, swept up to the front door. Toward the rear, shade trees could be seen towering above the garage. As soon as the sun began its descent, the whole area would be dappled in shade that deepened as dusk progressed.
Under the chief’s direction the exit of the mock cleaning crew was accompanied by such confusion that the neighbors were unlikely to realize that, when the truck finally pulled away, two men remained inside.
“Is this the way most of your robberies are pulled off?” asked a professionally interested Reardon.
“It depends on the season. The really busy time for us is in the summer. That’s when the families with school kids pull up stakes and it’s when the others go away on vacation. So the favorite trick is to arrive in a giant moving van and gut the whole house. At other seasons they pretend to be appliance repair people, delivery crews, reupholsterers.”
There was something to be said for high-rises, Reardon reflected. In his own territory the common run of burglaries involved a smashed lock and the disappearance of money, jewelry, furs and other portables. It was rare indeed that anybody tried shifting furniture and rugs down fourteen or fifteen flights.
The chief broke into these musings, saying, “It’s a shame my boys didn’t find that tape when they looked through this place before.”
“It was my fault, not theirs,” Reardon said for at least the fifth time. “I didn’t realize she’d been back here.”
Forty-eight hours ago a phone call from John Thatcher had caused Captain Reardon to kick himself and he had continued the process ever since.
“It was sitting out there the whole time and I never saw it,” he admitted. “There was a woman who checked into a hotel on the spur of the moment because she had a busy public schedule for days ahead. She sure as hell wasn’t going to make do by buying a toothbrush.”
“The hotel should have mentioned it,” the chief said supportively, “but that’s witnesses for you.”
“They were never asked the right questions, thanks to me. Instead of wasting time on records of outgoing calls, I should have concentrated on the obvious. As soon as I did, I got what I wanted.”
Indeed the reception clerk had been surprised he had to ask. The reason Madeleine Underwood had explained her sudden decision to the front desk was because she was checking in without luggage. Further police prodding had produced a bellboy who remembered carrying her suitcase in the elevator at ten-thirty that Monday evening.
“If I hadn’t been so damn thick,” Reardon continued his self-flagellation, “I would have had this place torn apart the minute I heard about the break-in at NOBBY. Instead I waited until yesterday.”
“Well, you got the tape and that’s the important thing. Right now we’d better make sure that window is unlocked,” the chief said, leading the way down the hall.
They were heading for the room in back that had been the target of yesterday’s belated efforts. Like every other square inch of the large home, it had received the ministrations of a fashionable decorator. Originally designed as a study for Madeleine’s lawyer husband, it boasted all the usual paraphernalia. There were leather club chairs before the fireplace, dark barrister bookcases along two walls and Daumier prints above the mantel. But another personality had long since taken over, dispelling any aura of leisured masculinity. The seating area had been compacted to allow the introduction of all the modern office machinery so dear to Madeleine’s heart, with each item on its own metal stand. The small end tables designed to support a chaste snifter of brandy or the latest issue of the Harvard Law Review housed tattered copies of House Beautiful while the bookcases, bereft of their ranks of law reports, now overflowed with heaps of fax material. Even the mahogany kneehole desk had virtually disappeared under a jumble of correspondence topped by a casually discarded tape recorder.
Yesterday, after discovering the recorder was empty, Reardon had stared at the masses of material in dismay. “My God, she didn’t organize a thing. This is even worse than the NOBBY office. We may have to listen to every single one of those,” he said, pointing to the stacks of cassettes gathering dust in odd nooks and crannies.
But the head of the search team did not agree. He had strolled over to the desk to double-check the tape recorder, then remained stock-still as he sniffed the air for the ghostly scent of the room’s untidy owner.
“Maybe not,” he said, turning his back on the whole sorry mess to drift into the hall.
The essence of being a gifted searcher is the ability to know instinctively what people do with things. This one stood in the archway of the living room surveying the decor before he marched straight to an ornate armoire and swung open its doors, revealing a complicated array of expensive electronic equipment.
“But that’s her entertainment system,” Reardon had protested.
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Ignoring him, the expert trailed a finger past amplifiers and speakers, a VCR and a CD player, to pop open the cassette player.
“Aha!” he grunted in satisfaction. “Here’s the one she played last. You did say she’d realized her tape important, didn’t you?”
“Important enough for a wow of a press conference,” Reardon confirmed.
“Then she wanted the best audio definition she could get. That’s why she brought it in here.”
This might be logical, thought Reardon dubiously. but logic had never been Madeleine’s forte. Furthermore he had approached closely enough to see cassettes featuring Vivaldi and The Phantom of the Opera in the adjacent tray. In spite of these doubts, however, he was waiting with bated breath by the time the expert had rewound the tape and punched the play button.
One minute was enough to tell him this was the right tape. It took almost fifteen minutes, however, of listening to two voices rising and fading away before—unmistakably clear—the motive for Madeleine Underwood’s murder proclaimed itself.
“By God, I’ve got to hand it to Thatcher,” the inspector had exclaimed in a burst of relief. “He was absolutely right.”
And today the fruits of victory would be harvested, but only after long dreary hours had passed. Outside, the familiar orchestration of a suburb on a workday evening was proceeding. Dominating everything was the sound of cars. From the main highway far away there came a mighty background roar. Lesser tributaries contributed the unending din of idling motors backed up at intersections while closer at hand the thinning trickles invaded nearby residential streets. Car doors slammed and voices rose in greeting as local commuters arrived first, to be followed by those from more distant outposts. And even before the last stragglers from New York City were in their garages, the mighty surge of teenagers began, heralded by gunned engines, squealing brakes and blaring radios.
From five-thirty to seven-thirty Reardon and the chief discussed exhaustively every single aspect of the New York Yankees, Knicks and Rangers, covering past performance, future prospects and rumored trades. The monotony was broken only once with a phone call for Reardon.