by Emma Lathen
“. . . looked in his office upstairs before I came down . . .”
Yeoman could have held his own against the medley of respectful voices if Vandevanter had not singled out the last of them: “You’re Orcutt, aren’t you? Are you saying you don’t know where Shaw is?”
Gene Orcutt reddened under Vandevanter’s accusation but kept his composure. “Mr. Shaw’s been up and down to the floor all day, Mr. Vandevanter. He’s keeping a minute-to-minute watch on what’s happening.”
“I know that!” Vandevanter would have continued, but his attention was claimed by Ted Kanelos.
“I think we should be getting over to the studio,” Kanelos started when Vandevanter cut him short.
“You go on ahead, Kanelos. I’m going to be busy here for a while. Orcutt, see if you can locate Shaw, will you? I want to see him for a few minutes . . .”
Thatcher, who had not budged from his roost in the audience, was unimpressed by the performance. The supporting players were all right: Kanelos, hurrying out to important appointments; Orcutt, nodding vigorously and saying, “Right! . . . right!” Even the spear carriers listened to the president of the Dreyer Chocolate Company with energy. But Howard Vandevanter as clipped, dynamic executive was miscast.
Yeoman, on the other hand, was exhibiting more self-control than Thatcher would have credited him with.
“Vandevanter, we’re going to have this out—about using the Trust!”
Vandevanter broke off his conversation with Orcutt. “Oh, Yeoman,” he said vaguely. “I’m afraid I’m a little too busy right now . . .”
With that, he moved to the door through which Kanelos had disappeared, buffered by the entourage which automatically grouped around him.
This left Thatcher with Governor Yeoman, and young Orcutt.
Orcutt, moodily chewing his underlip, looked ready to burst into speech. But, after a quick appraisal of Yeoman and Thatcher, he darted out after Vandevanter.
Yeoman had to vent his emotions. “Did you see that!” he roared, white with fury. “Who the hell does Vandevanter think he is? If he thinks . . .”
Thatcher made no effort to dam the flood. Right now, only one of the woolier saints would try peacemaking.
“Well, if he thinks he’s getting away with it,” Yeoman growled, “he’s got bats in the belfry! Are you coming with me?”
“No!”
This monosyllable halted Yeoman’s determined progress to the door only briefly. But, after a half-beat of blank curiosity, anger overtook him again.
“Suit yourself,” he said curtly, striding out.
So much for setting a good example, thought Thatcher, taking his time about leaving Dreyer’s Cocoa Purchasing Division. Downstairs, millions of dollars hung in the balance, waiting on Amory Shaw. Upstairs, a whole gang of people were stalking each other.
When he reached street level, Thatcher let impulse lead him around the corner to the public entrance of the Cocoa Exchange. The visitors’ gallery was a minuscule perch hung only feet above the floor, not a remote, glass-encased viewing post. The circular trading table was the focus of a modest room, not a vast cavern. The clerk at the desk could have yelled the latest prices to the boys chalking them up on the balcony, instead of using the microphone.
Yet in the slips of paper changing hands with quick tension, the penciled notes, the ceaseless jangle of muted telephones, and, above all, the pinpointed concentration, Thatcher caught the essence of all true markets, whether they are on the waterfront at Hong Kong or the corner of John and Fulton Streets.
Without consulting the board, Thatcher knew that the price of cocoa was still falling. He did not recognize any personal acquaintances among the 40-odd men below him but, in a larger sense, he knew them all. Exhaustion hung over the Cocoa Exchange like a pall. Since nine in the morning, these men had listened, shouted, sorted rumors, and watched the sag in prices ripen into catastrophe. Like badly punished boxers, they had to keep counterpunching until the bell—relying on instinct and hope.
“Lord!” A hoarse whispered fragment from a burly man at the phone below him floated up to Thatcher. “If Amory doesn’t do something today, do you know what tomorrow’s going to be like?”
The restless eyes that flicked unseeingly up at Thatcher went from face to face, the questions went across the table, from messenger to trader, from telephone to telephone. But irresistibly, sooner or later, everybody turned to look at the swinging doors directly beneath Thatcher, the doors through which Amory Shaw would come.
Thatcher’s hand was on the doorknob when his departure was arrested.
There was a sudden hush, as compelling as an alarm bell. When Thatcher looked back, every eye was already riveted on the entrance.
Finally someone said with a hoarse assumption of jocularity: “Amory! Come to bail us out?”
The voice broke off just as Shaw came into sight directly below Thatcher. He was swaying drunkenly.
“My God!”
“Amory—”
The cries were abruptly silenced when Amory Shaw pitched forward on his face.
During the long paralysis of shock and horror Thatcher gripped the rail with painful intensity. His vantage point gave him a split-second lead over the men down below.
He was first to see the knife protruding from Amory Shaw’s back.
Chapter 12
The Second Murder Aftermath
“He’s been knifed in the back!”
These words released frozen tongues and bodies. Questions and exclamations filled the air while stunned, incredulous men pressed forward. Thatcher lost sight of Amory Shaw in the milling confusion.
“Get back, you fools! Give him room!”
Russ Martini hurried onto the floor, thrusting people aside to clear a space around Shaw’s body. Shamefacedly, his colleagues drew back, leaving him to stand guard. Looking around for help, he pointed to one of the messenger boys.
“Sam, get out to the office and tell them to find out if there’s a doctor in the building,” he ordered. “And have them call an ambulance.”
Martini had met the emergency instinctively but, as Sam scurried away, he had second thoughts. Everybody else had stepped aside, tacitly abdicating responsibility. Martini looked down at the body and winced.
“Isn’t there anybody here from Dreyer?” he asked almost desperately.
From the crowd, a voice volunteered: “I’ll see if I can find someone.”
It was no escape. Visibly bracing himself, Martini knelt down and studied Shaw’s face.
“Is he alive, Russ?” a trader asked anxiously.
“How the hell do I know?” Martini snapped. Then, more calmly, he added: “I don’t think he’s breathing.”
This triggered advice, argument, debate until the arrival of a newcomer.
“Good God, it’s true,” cried Howard Vandevanter unbelievingly. “But you can’t leave him lying there. We’ve got to take out that knife.”
He was reaching for it when Martini’s hand clamped around his wrist like a vise.
“For Lord’s sake, he’ll hemorrhage to death if you do that. And we’re not moving him either.”
Vandevanter jerked his wrist free. “I don’t see—” he began.
“Stand aside, please,” came a brisk voice.
The doctor was escorted by Gene Orcutt, who looked as if he had been running. “Dr. Tyler here was just on his way to see his broker. Sam told me . . .”
But there was nothing Dr. Tyler could do. After a quick examination, he shook his head and rose.
“This man is dead,” he said, dusting his knees automatically.
In the ensuing stillness broken only by the clangor of unanswered telephones, Orcutt sounded sick. “And the police want everybody who saw anything to stay here.”
Above his head, John Thatcher sighed. If this meant anyone, it meant him.
There was no use waiting it out in solitary splendor. Thatcher made his way downstairs to the Exchange office, where he found a familiar-looking
woman sobbing on Curtis Yeoman’s shoulder.
“Shaw’s secretary,” Yeoman muttered. “She came down as soon as she heard.”
She was not the only one. Murder had transformed the ground floor into a seething maelstrom. The eye of the storm was circulating around Sam, who was holding court in the narrow hallway.
“I saw the whole thing,” he repeated himself excitedly. “The elevator door opened, and there was Mr. Shaw—all alone. I could tell right away something was real wrong, but I didn’t know what. He didn’t say anything. He just staggered past me, toward the floor. He was halfway there before I saw the knife in his back. Lord, it was awful.”
“They killed him,” moaned the woman in Yeoman’s arms. “They murdered Mr. Shaw.”
“For God’s sake,” Howard Vandevanter protested as he appeared. “I know this is terrible, Mrs. Macomber, but try to get hold of yourself. The police will be here any minute and hysterical accusations won’t help.”
“Well, she’s right, isn’t she?” Yeoman asked nastily.
Vandevanter produced a handkerchief and wearily mopped his brow. “I suppose so. I couldn’t believe it when they told me. I’d just come down from Glasscock’s office . . .”
Yeoman’s head jerked back. “That’s funny. I didn’t see you there, and God knows I was looking for you.”
“We must have just missed each other,” Vandevanter wanted to drop the subject.
“I was looking for you too,” said Gene Orcutt dully. “That’s why I came downstairs . . .”
Mrs. Macomber had been following her own line of thought. Unerringly she said what nobody wanted to hear.
“Oh, poor Mr. Frohlich,” she wailed. “First him—now, Mr. Shaw.”
Yeoman cast her a look of venomous dislike, then deliberately turned to Thatcher. “Can’t somebody do something about this mob?” he complained. “Everybody in the building seems to be shoving their way down here.”
“Well, what the hell do you expect?”
Thatcher swung around to find Leo Gilligan, standing apart, smoking a cigar.
“Hello, Gilligan,” he said. “I didn’t notice you.”
“I came down to see what was happening to September delivery,” said Gilligan with a wry smile. “And I found—this!”
Before Thatcher could comment, there was a sudden increase of activity outside. From Fulton Street, a phalanx of policemen began hurrying in to be met by a crowd exiting from the floor.
“Great,” said Gilligan bitterly. “Trading is closed for the day.” He gave a cracked laugh. “If trading is what you call it.”
Two hours later he was downing a glass. “I needed that,” he said, signaling the waiter for another round.
“Come on, Leo,” said Charlie Trinkam comfortably. “What are you worrying about? I’ll back up your alibi.”
Gilligan was not smiling. “You worry about alibis. I’ve got my hands full, worrying about going broke.”
Curious, Thatcher asked: “How is Charlie your alibi?”
When the police had finally released their unruly band of witnesses, Thatcher had been taken aback to find Gilligan at his elbow. He was meeting Trinkam in a bar around the corner, Gilligan explained. Would Thatcher care to join them?
Lighting a fresh cigar, Gilligan now amplified: “As nearly as I can tell, I was on the telephone with Charlie here, when Amory got it.”
Unlike Charlie, he was not treating that phone call lightly. Thatcher wondered how much this alibi was worth. Apparently there was several minutes’ leeway as to when Amory Shaw had been stabbed.
“Well, if you were on the phone in an office,” Thatcher reasoned, “presumably you’ve got other witnesses—”
But this was a misstep.
“Call from an office?” Gilligan scoffed. “Do I want any of those cutthroats to know I’m calling my banker, trying to raise cash? Hell, I was in a pay phone, outside. You see, I’ve studied Shaw. He doesn’t make moves at the end of the day. I figured he was going to hold off until first thing tomorrow morning. That’s why I wanted to be ready . . .”
Thatcher was willing to let Gilligan lead the conversation away from murder to cocoa futures, although he doubted that the police had been so accommodating.
Whether or not Charlie could be called an adequate alibi was an open question. He was prepared to be helpful along different lines.
“Anyway, Leo, Shaw was going to scoop the pool—and now there’s no Shaw. That proves you had a lot to gain by keeping him alive.”
Gilligan did not like this either. “The police aren’t thinking about me,” he said authoritatively. “They’ve got plenty to keep them busy—with Dreyer.”
Nobody could contradict him. “Two murders in two weeks,” Charlie marveled aloud. “I suppose the police have made the connection.”
“Give them credit for some sense,” Thatcher told him. “They barely finished questioning people in that building about Frohlich, when they were called in for Shaw.”
“It would make anybody think twice,” Charlie agreed. “I suppose your pals at Dreyer weren’t lucky enough to all be sitting around the same conference table at the critical moment.”
Gilligan took the remark at face value. “They don’t have conferences at Dreyer here, unless Amory Shaw is in the chair.”
It was going to be a long time, Thatcher reflected, before the shadow of Amory Shaw faded. “For your information, Charlie, everyone involved was alone and in motion at the time of the murder. The police even had trouble tracking Shaw. He was in his own office, he stopped by Martini & Mears, he went downstairs to Frohlich’s old office. And he was on and off the floor itself. The police assume he was attacked in the elevator, or just as he was getting into it.”
Charlie ironed out details to his own satisfaction. “And it would only take a second. You walk up to Shaw, plunge the knife in, then skedaddle.” He accompanied this recital with exuberant gestures. “By all odds, Shaw should have been dead when the elevator doors opened downstairs.”
“Yes,” Thatcher nodded. “His staggering onto the floor was a macabre touch that doesn’t alter things at all.”
“It’s a shame he didn’t use his energy to whisper the murderer’s name to somebody.”
“The medical theory is there was nothing rational about Shaw’s last movements—just a spasmodic attempt to find help.”
It was always a mistake to hurl medical theories at Charlie. “Like those galvanic kicks from the frog, huh?” he asked.
Gilligan shuddered. “Listen, I’ve got to get back,” he said, rising.
“You’re giving me a call later, Charlie? I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen tomorrow, but I still want to be ready . . .”
Charlie sped him on his way with reassurance, then studied the table top soberly.
“Leo’s worried,” he concluded. “The way things are going in cocoa, he’d be nuts if he wasn’t. But I sure as hell hope that one of our big customers isn’t going to turn out to be Jack the Ripper.”
Thatcher could not dismiss the possibility out of hand. “The attack could have taken place on any floor. Nobody noticed the elevator indicator. So, everyone is still in the running.”
Charlie digested this. Then: “What about Vandevanter wanting to pull the knife out? Maybe he was scared to find Shaw still alive, and wanted to finish the job.”
“That’s one interpretation,” Thatcher agreed. “You could also say that Vandevanter was in shock. Or that he meant it for the best. The trouble is that there are too many possibilities. Vandevanter managed to shake his flunkies and was roaming around, hunting for Shaw. Yeoman was on his trail. Orcutt seems to have been looking for either of them—”
“I’m surprised they didn’t all run into each other in the men’s room,” said Charlie.
“Orcutt claims to have checked them all—looking for Shaw.” When Charlie laughed, he added: “Of course, you can cast a wider net, too. Take Martini, for instance. He went outside to grab a bite, and there’s no corro
boration about when he got back.”
“Boy,” said Charlie admiringly, “that’s some bunch you’re mixed up with, John. I can hardly wait for the next installment from Dreyer.”
He did not have to wait long. As they were settling the bill, the TV set in the corner erupted into choral chanting: D-R-E-Y-E-R spells Dreyer.
“That’s one hell of a way to announce a murder,” said Charlie thoughtfully.
It was not, as Thatcher had momentarily feared, the news.
“Tonight,” said an unctuous voice, “we are presenting Dreyer’s Living Theater, to celebrate the introduction of Dreyer’s Old Glory. Yes, America’s first family of fine chocolate brings you the ultimate satisfaction in a candy bar. Made with only natural ingredients, Old Glory blends the creamy satisfaction of milk chocolate from an old Swiss recipe with the tart refreshment of pure bittersweet. For almost a century, Americans on the go have turned to Dreyer for . . .”
The screen showed a rural couple in turn-of-the-century attire. The husband, resting from the plow, munched a candy bar. Instantly fatigue vanished, and he bounded back to Old Dobbin. Much the same transpired with his wife at her back porch mangle.
“Good Lord,” said Thatcher. “Kanelos’ advertising campaign!”
The drama moved to current times. This couple, in blue jeans, were swinging through a landscape rich in meadow flowers. Hand in hand, they brandished Old Glory bars at each other.
“Like their grandparents before them,” said the announcer, “they settle for nothing but the best.”
The young couple paused to embrace. A balmy breeze played over their golden locks while the sound track broke into romantic strains. The young man drew back, looked soulfully at his companion, then addressed himself to a chocolate bar.
“When you need that extra ounce of quick energy,” said the voice solemnly, “reach for a Dreyer’s Old Glory.”
Charlie didn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are they trying to tell me he can’t get it up without some candy?”
“Ssh!” begged the bar, glued to the screen.
But Dreyer’s was a family product. The young lovers faded slowly from view.