Sweet and Low_An Emma Lathen Best Seller

by Emma Lathen

  Here he heard reports—from the director of the Dreyer Medical Institute, from the chairman of the Dreyer Center for the Performing Arts, from the curator of the Dreyer Museum, from the conductor of the Dreyer Symphony. Between triumphs of the past and hopes for the future, Thatcher was introduced to the human element.

  “Thatcher! We haven’t had a chance to welcome you aboard. I want to introduce you to some people.”

  The man speaking was tall, gray-haired, and self-assured. It was only because his luxuriant black eyebrows had been a cartoonist’s delight during his term of office that Thatcher was able to identify ex-governor Curtis Yeoman.

  “. . . and have you met Mrs. Ribblesdale? She’s been on the board for two years.”

  While responding suitably, Thatcher was amused to note that Yeoman did not introduce himself. To the best of Thatcher’s recollection they had never met, yet Yeoman was treating him like an old acquaintance. Exuding confidence, almost military in bearing, Curtis Yeoman simply assumed that everybody in Dreyer knew who he was. It was too early for character analysis, but Thatcher was willing to bet this was not the result of childish arrogance.

  “And this is Reverend Buckner Chalmers, of the National Council of Christians and Jews,” Yeoman was continuing relentlessly. “Bucky, this is John Thatcher from the Sloan Guaranty Trust. He’s taking over from Bart Sims . . .”

  Thatcher estimated that he met 50 people during cocktails. Over 20 of them were fellow trustees. But Yeoman showed no more tendency to linger over the distinguished senator and the Nobel laureate than over the musicologist and the choreographer. In fact, by gesture and intonation he was saying what old Bartlett Sims had put into words.

  “Only three people are really important,” he had harrumphed before the Avis car had plowed into them. “The members of the steering committee. And that’s Howard Vandevanter, Curtis Yeoman, and now you.”

  Considering that the function of the committee was to extract money from the company and then determine its apportionment, Thatcher was inclined to agree with this assessment. But Curtis Yeoman did not act like the member of a troika. He acted like a man who regarded himself, and was regarded by others, as first among his equals. Well, if he was expecting the man from the Sloan to be a deferential newcomer, he was in for a surprise.

  But the evening was not far advanced before Thatcher discovered that Yeoman had a different casting in mind. The ex-governor had arranged for them to sit together during dinner and the interminable speeches that accompanied it.

  “Thank God, that’s over,” Yeoman said briskly after the commissioner of Dreyer’s Boys Town followed dessert. “Now we can get some more coffee. Oh, Vandevanter will thank us for coming and there’ll be some informal chatting, but the heavy stuff is done. Waste of time, if you ask me.”

  “Everybody seems to have enjoyed it,” said Thatcher although he had noticed enviously that the seat beside him remained vacant for the entire evening.

  “Oh, it’s all right for most of them,” Yeoman admitted. “Some of them are really interested.”

  But men of affairs like us, he managed to imply, want to get our teeth into real problems.

  “Tomorrow we’ll be getting down to brass tacks with Vandevanter,” he went on with a glint in his eye. “Our first priority is to get that dividend raised. Otherwise, all this talk isn’t worth a damn.”

  “Oh?” At this stage of the game, Thatcher was not committing himself to anything. But he was beginning to wonder about the real reason for Bartlett Sims’ retirement.

  Yeoman grew too confidential. “I’ve been with the trust for twelve years now and I’ve gotten quite a lot accomplished. But I’m sorry to say that we’re going to have trouble with Howard. You know that he’s just been president since last May?”

  Silently Thatcher nodded.

  “In some ways I’ve been pleasantly surprised. At least he’s made one sensible decision—to start some advertising. And high time, too!”

  For decades, Dreyer had operated on the theory that buying a Dreyer bar was a natural human instinct. But the recent decision to launch a new chocolate bar had finally led the company to Madison Avenue. In New York they were saying that Bridges, Gray & Kanelos were about to unveil a campaign designed to knock Coca-Cola, Geritol, and Gillette into a cocked hat.

  “I’ll hand Vandevanter that much,” Yeoman admitted grudgingly. “But there’s a lot more that needs doing. Basically, of course, the mistake was to choose a president whose expertise is so narrow. The only thing he’s willing to concentrate on is the production and marketing of chocolate bars.”

  Picking his way with care, Thatcher suggested that was not inappropriate for the head of Dreyer.

  “Oh, I’m not saying it isn’t the right place to start. But we require more and, if he can’t broaden his scope,” Yeoman said, lowering his eyebrows threateningly, “it may turn out that he’s not the man for the job.”

  Well, well, thought Thatcher, so that’s the way the wind blows. It was not the newcomer from the Sloan who had to be kept in his place. It was the newcomer in the president’s office.

  “Just where is this broadening process supposed to begin?” he asked skeptically.

  Curtis Yeoman was eager to tell him. “Right here!” he barked. “When a charitable trust holds most of a company’s stock, you can’t treat them like an ordinary shareholder. It’s not as if they were interested in just money.”

  Thatcher reviewed some of his cocktail conversations. He had been acting as a trustee for scarcely six hours and already he had heard appeals for a radiological laboratory at the hospital, a revolving stage at the repertory theater, and a botanical expedition to South America for the arboretum.

  “They seem quite interested in the things that money can buy,” he said temperately.

  Yeoman shifted his ground. “And then we have big and important operations which Howard doesn’t begin to understand. I suppose you’re going to say that Amory Shaw has New York under control—”

  Thatcher, who was going to say no such thing, did not have to produce an alternative.

  “Speak of the devil!”

  The ruddy young man balancing his coffee cup at their side turned out to be Dick Frohlich, up from Dreyer’s New York office. “I heard you mention Amory Shaw, Governor. He’s the one I’m looking for. They told me he was sitting over here with you.”

  Yeoman was saying he did not know Shaw’s whereabouts when Thatcher flicked the place card at the empty seat. “If this is your man, Frohlich, he never showed up this evening.”

  “Damn!” said Frohlich forcibly just as someone several seats down volunteered information.

  “Amory phoned through before dinner to say he couldn’t make it, Dick. But he’ll be here in time for the meeting tomorrow.”

  This did not satisfy the burly young man. “Hell,” he complained, “if I’d known he was staying in New York, I’d have stayed too. I’ve got to talk to him and his office said he was leaving early to fly up here.”

  So this was how everything in New York was under control, thought Thatcher. But Governor Yeoman moved promptly to prevent further disclosures.

  “As long as you’re here, Dick, why don’t you join us for a minute. John is new to the steering committee and he’s interested in . . .”

  Looking preoccupied, Frohlich dropped heavily into the vacant chair. But he was basically a sociable young man and within minutes Yeoman had diverted him from his disappointment.

  “You could say I work in New York, but mostly I travel. I just got back from Ghana yesterday, as a matter of fact. Been looking over the crop . . .”

  The sunburn, the rangy swing were explained. Dick Frohlich was one of Dreyer’s roving cocoa buyers.

  If Thatcher had a soft spot it was for experts, the more recondite the better. “Ghana’s your chief source of supply for cocoa beans, isn’t it?” he asked encouragingly.

  “They produce about 40% of the world crop,” said Frohlich, warming despite himself. “
The main crop will be coming in from now to about March. That’s the biggest factor in the price Dreyer is going to have to pay for beans . . .”

  Yeoman stirred restively but Frohlich kept his attention on Thatcher. “Of course, Dreyer uses a mix of beans,” he said, folding powerful forearms on the table. “Next May and June I’ll be checking on the midcrop output in Brazil. But Ghana’s what really counts in our purchasing. Right now, most of the cocoa buyers in the world are padding around there, trying to second-guess the market.”

  Dick Frohlich’s cheerful confidence made it clear that nobody was likely to second-guess him. Tactful questioning elicited the fact that Frohlich had been buying cocoa for Dreyer for over 15 years. “Funny how things turn out,” he responded to interest from Thatcher. “I was a farm boy—but now I’d have a hard time telling wheat from oats.”

  But this was the extent of his philosophizing. He proceeded to give Thatcher a brisk rundown of world cocoa prices.

  Before he could complete his survey, clinking spoons indicated that Howard Vandevanter was about to make a few remarks. The president of Dreyer, despite an unexpected shock of banana-yellow hair, was colorless in feature, voice, and expression. He was, however, succinct.

  “First, I want to thank those of you who have contributed so much toward making this a banner year for the Leonard Dreyer Trust,” he began. The mandatory tribute to the late Leonard Dreyer was covered in two sentences. Vandevanter wound up by pledging that the Leonard Dreyer Trust and the Dreyer Chocolate Company would continue to reflect credit on their illustrious founder in the forthcoming year. Then, mercifully, he declared the meeting over.

  In the confusion of general release, Yeoman made himself heard. “You may not be able to get hold of Amory Shaw tonight, Frohlich, but Vandevanter seems to be heading this way.”

  Frohlich turned to observe the conspicuous yellow head bearing down on them. “Well, I’m not talking to him until I’ve seen Amory,” he said more stubbornly than the circumstances warranted. “If you’ll excuse me,

  I’ve got a poker game lined up back at the motel . . .”

  He strode off before Vandevanter could reach them. “That was Dick Frohlich, wasn’t it?” Vandevanter said, looking after him curiously.

  “Yes,” said Yeoman. “For some reason he doesn’t want to talk to you until he’s seen Shaw.”

  Vandevanter’s response was oblique. “Well, both Frohlich and Amory will be meeting with us tomorrow,” he said with a perfunctory smile that welcomed Thatcher to the steering committee. “I think you’ll be interested . . .”

  Thatcher knew exactly how to reply but Yeoman did not give him a chance.

  “Where is Amory, anyway?” he demanded. “Frohlich sounded as if whatever he wants to talk about is pretty damned important.”

  This time Vandevanter convinced Thatcher he had taken Yeoman’s measure. “Amory said something about not liking the look of the market, Curtis, so he decided to spend the afternoon in the office.” Then he changed the subject: “Thatcher, have I described our new advertising campaign to you? Come along and meet . . .”

  In the normal course of events there was little Thatcher wanted less than exposure to advertising campaigns. But, he had had enough of Curtis Yeoman for one day. And Vandevanter had pointedly not included the governor in his invitation. By the time Thatcher had exhaustively discussed Dreyer’s sales plans with Vandevanter, and the Dreyer Animal Rescue Shelter with an animal lover whose name he did not catch, he decided to take a short stroll before bed and another round of meetings. Accordingly, he set out to walk back to the Royal Dutch Motel, through downtown Dreyer, which turned out to be a town that retired early.

  When he arrived, Thatcher was careful to steer clear of the lobby. Only one importuning trustee, seeking a companionable nightcap, would be enough to scuttle his newfound serenity. Messages and phone calls, he decided, could wait until morning. So he proceeded directly through the parking lot toward the inner courtyard, where his own accommodations were located. In passing he noticed that not everybody was following his program. Convivial voices and low masculine laughter were filtering through a lighted window near the deserted dining room.

  At the archway separating the two halves of the motel, he paused. Here, at least, no one was abroad. Patio lanterns provided the only illumination. Azalea and dogwood slumbered in the shadow and the swimming pool lay still and empty under a starry sky. A sliver of moon was setting over the dark hills in the distance. It was hard to believe that between himself and those hills lay the reality of a large industrial operation.

  Tomorrow would produce more reality, in the form of facts and figures. Quite properly, Thatcher was prepared to defer judgment until he studied them. Nevertheless, despite the unreliability of first impressions, he was ending the day at Dreyer conscious of troublesome undercurrents.

  Behind the lighted window, Dick Frohlich was less circumspect.

  “Boy, that Yeoman is a nosy SOB!” Examining his cards, he went on: “Every time I see him, he’s pumping.”

  Sid Bousquet and Bob Reardon were still looking for openers while the two salesmen from Topeka were standing pat.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Mm . . . mm . . .”

  But once Reardon resumed his duties as dealer, Bousquet tore his attention from the two cards that were going to give him a flush. “Yeoman looking for any dirt he can find?”

  “You’re damned right he is. And he’s got a nose for dirt.”

  For a while, the cards monopolized attention. Bob Reardon stuck with his tens and confidently eyed the pot through a round of amateurish bluffs. After he collected, he relaxed and said: “Something brewing between Shaw and Vandevanter, as usual?”

  “Something’s up,” Frohlich agreed somberly. “But it’s not the same as usual—believe me.”

  Reardon and Bousquet exchanged glances across Frohlich. They were all contemporaries but Frohlich’s position kept him close to headquarters. He traveled around the world, true—but he reported to the top brass in Dreyer, as well as the top brass in New York. As a result, he knew and talked to people who were remote from Bob Reardon and Sid Bousquet.

  “I’ve been trying to see Amory all day,” Frohlich said moodily. He could not leave the subject alone.

  Impatiently Bousquet said, “So you’ll see him tomorrow. Probably he didn’t want to leave the market today. They say Shaw’s the smartest commodity man in the business.”

  “He’s not as smart as he thinks,” said Frohlich, picking up the deck and drilling cards around the table. “He acts like God Almighty, but he’s sitting on a real pile of garbage down in New York.”

  Again there was a silent interchange between Reardon and Bousquet.

  This was one hell of a way to play poker. Reardon decided to clear the air. “Say, Dick, what’s the latest from Ghana? You just got back yesterday, didn’t you?”

  Frohlich reached for a new can of beer. “God, was it only yesterday? It seems like a million years ago—so much has happened since.” He took a long drink, then the scowl returned and he grounded the can with a clatter. “But not enough. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to have it out with Amory Shaw. Whether he likes it or not.”

  But by tomorrow it was too late.

  Chapter 3

  Murder in Chocolate City

  John Thatcher was sharing a breakfast table with Curtis Yeoman when he realized that something serious had happened. At first it seemed to be simply another count in Yeoman’s indictment of the Royal Dutch Motel.

  “I don’t know what’s come over this place,” he grumbled. “It’s never been the Ritz, but they’ve always been able to manage a simple breakfast.”

  The wrong table had been followed by the wrong juice. Now, he had been waiting 15 minutes for a three-minute egg.

  “There may be a crisis in the kitchen,” said Thatcher, who could afford detachment. His grapefruit had been excellent and he was already halfway through his ham and eggs.

  “There
must be.”

  But Thatcher drew Yeoman’s attention to an agitated cluster of waiters in the doorway.

  “HOY!” Yeoman bellowed autocratically. “Hoy! You there . . .”

  A flurried waiter approached and tried to apologize. “I’m sorry, sir . . . you see . . . that is . . .”

  When Yeoman curtly demanded his eggs, he simply turned and fled.

  “Ten to one, they’ll be hardboiled!”

  Thatcher ignored Yeoman to inspect the continuing conclave at the entrance.

  “Whatever the dislocation is,” he remarked, “I think it’s bigger than the kitchen.”

  Yeoman’s interest remained firmly centered on himself. “I don’t want to make us late for this meeting with Vandevanter. You’re going to get a real shock. You’ll see that Amory Shaw is the only person at Dreyer who’s really topnotch.”

  The arrival of overcooked eggs and cold toast put an end to Governor Yeoman’s dogmatism. It also left Thatcher free to follow the agitation at the door. As he watched, the group broke up, with half of them hurrying out of sight.

  “Disgraceful service, and I shall certainly complain to the manager.”

  But the manager was otherwise occupied, as they discovered when they finally put breakfast behind them. Wringing his hands, he was trotting through the lobby flanked by two uniformed policemen.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Yeoman as the parade filed past him. “What’s going on?”

  He was officiously bent on finding out when his way was barred.

  We don’t want people going into the courtyard right now,” said one of the policemen.

  While Yeoman expostulated, Thatcher questioned a nearby waiter.

  “There’s been an accident in the pool,” he replied in an undertone.

  Just then, a driver approached and announced that the car was waiting outside.

  Gaping at fires and other tragedies had never held any appeal for Thatcher. So he turned promptly to collect Yeoman for the short ride to Dreyer headquarters.