by Emma Lathen
Russ Martini and Jim Mears had done as much coal raking as anybody in the building, but they were still at it.
“You notice who’s missing from the list?” asked Mears, going on before Martini could finish his inspection. “Leo Gilligan, that’s who!”
“But we had all his Dreyer business. And God knows there was enough of it, the way he strung things out. The guy must be a sadist.”
Mears was shaking his head. “All the Dreyer business, and not one cent of his personal trading. Or are you going to tell me there wasn’t any?”
“So he wanted to keep his accounts separate. What right do we have to complain? We got the lion’s share.” Still leaning over the list, Martini raised a hand to scrub his knuckles along the nape of his neck. “God, I can’t remember being so tired.”
“Well then, see you tomorrow,” said Mears, finally bestirring himself.
“Are you going out now?”
“What’s that?” Martini had lowered a finger to pinpoint one item. “I just noticed this. No, you go along. There’s one call I want to put through.
It’ll be a pleasure after the others I’ve had to make.”
Eleanor Corwin put down the phone and turned to her husband. “We’ve just made $12,300,” she announced.
Rodger blinked. Five minutes ago he had returned from work, kissed his wife, and left her to answer the phone while he hung up his coat.
“If you can do that any old time,” he asked cautiously, “why are we carrying this great big mortgage?”
She grinned mischievously. “Don’t you want to know how I did it?”
“Maybe I’d be better off not knowing,” Rodger suggested, with visions of himself in some future witness box.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! It was Dick. Don’t you remember that broker’s statement Mr. Shaw told us to give to the lawyer? Well, it was the broker who called just now.”
Rodger relaxed. “$12,000?” he repeated, wanting to get the number right. “It didn’t look as if it was worth that much.”
“Mr. Martini, that’s the broker, said it was a fluke. The cocoa market has been behaving oddly.”
Rodger was not much interested in the explanation. “Say,” he said, as one who has made a great discovery, “we could buy a boat!”
“Or,” said Eleanor, following him like lightning, “we could go to Spain next summer.”
“And you said you wanted to join that tennis club—”
“. . . the kitchen positively has to be remodeled.”
After an hour of pleasurable activity, Rodger Corwin looked up from his total in comical dismay. “That comes to slightly over $47,000,” he remarked.
He was not the only mathematician in the family.
“Then we’re $35,000 short,” Eleanor retorted crisply.
Rodger flinched. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded. He did not receive an immediate answer. His wife’s eyes were fixed on some distant horizon, but he could almost hear the wheels clicking.
“Of course, I took down Mr. Martini’s address and phone number,” she said, suddenly all business.
By now they were established on the sofa, with drinks on the coffee table. Rodger tried to remember how strong he had made them.
“Eleanor—” he began warningly, but to no avail.
“All that Dick did was buy some cocoa,” she continued with alarming rationality. “And it isn’t as if you have to pay out a lot of money. Mr. Martini told me that you just have to put up a tiny percentage. So, with $12,000—”
Firmly Rodger Corwin removed his wife’s glass. “Honey, I can see that glint in your eye. But just remember this, a lot of people lose money in cocoa, too.”
The surprised delight in Eleanor Corwin’s voice plus the prospect of a new customer provided Russ Martini with enough steam to rise from his chair and leave the office. At the Gaslight Lounge on Broad Street he found himself sharing a table, and reliving his latest coup.
“Of course, I’m going to have to explain to her about margin calls. But, if you ask me, that never really sinks in with some people.”
Martini drained his beer thirstily and signaled for another, after the obligatory glance across the table. But Gene Orcutt was not making any progress through his Löwenbrau.
“And I don’t just mean beginners,” Martini warmed to his theme. “There are people who have been trading through me for years, people who’ll talk you to death about the leverage they get in commodities, people who go crazy about how much percentage profit they can make on a small investment—well these same people sang a different tune when I called them last week and told them to ante up. They acted like they’d never heard of a margin call.”
Orcutt forced a smile. “Yeah,” he said dully, “I suppose you see a lot of that sort of thing.”
Russ Martini was too tired to notice. “I get a bellyful,” he answered succinctly. “And if you threaten to sell out these loudmouths, you should hear them. Suddenly you’re taking bread from their children. It never occurs to them that it works the other way, too.”
“But you do carry some of them, don’t you?” asked Orcutt, lifting his eyes for the first time. “I mean, even after you’ve said you’re going to dump their holdings?”
“It depends on the customer, and it depends on the market. If I know a guy is good for it and the market isn’t going crazy, sure I’ll hang on a while. But the way things have been recently, there was no time for that kind of decision. Jim and I can’t carry the whole world.”
“Sure,” Orcutt agreed too quickly. “You’re not supposed to be running a charity.”
The second beer, and the waitress approaching with a menu, were combining to mellow Martini. “We’d have to be the Ford Foundation to save every lamebrain in the cocoa market,” he said roundly. “You eating here?”
“What?” For a moment, Orcutt was lost. Then he shook his head. “No, I’ll be pushing off home in a couple of minutes. But now that cocoa has touched bottom and is on the way up, things aren’t so bad for your customers any more. Even if you sell some of their holdings, they’ll make money on what’s left.”
Deep in a choice between lamb chops and pork chops, Martini mistook a plea for reassurance for a search for instruction.
“Depends what the poor saps bought at,” he replied absently. “They may not have anything left. Anyway, who knows what cocoa is going to do? We may be in for another slide.”
“Another slide?” said a reproachful voice. “You should have more faith in me, Russ.”
It was Leo Gilligan, halting by their table on his way out. He gave every evidence of having finished a profitable day with an appropriate celebration. Here, at least, was one trader who had escaped the prevailing aura of anxiety. He declined an invitation to sit. No, he said, he was just passing the time of day.
“But not handing out any information, is that it, Leo?” Martini asked resignedly.
“Now, Russ, I put Dreyer back into the market, didn’t I? What more do you want from me in one week?” Gilligan’s shrewd eyes examined the broker.
“I want all I can get,” Martini said frankly. But he had been reminded of a fact. “Say, Leo, while you were putting Dreyer back in the market, you didn’t forget to put yourself back in, did you?”
Smiling, Gilligan said: “That’s classified information. Let’s say I like to keep a watertight wall between Leo Gilligan and Dreyer’s man on the floor.”
Martini had to settle for this. “I’ll say this for you, Leo,” he conceded, “you came through on your margin calls last week like a real gent.”
“It’s all part of the game.” Gilligan gestured expansively with his cigar. “But take it all in all, the ups and the downs, the Cocoa Exchange is a great place.”
“We’ve decided that the Cocoa Exchange simply doesn’t meet our requirements,” Craig Phibbs told the phone sternly. “We need action, we need excitement, we need a spectacle that can grip millions of people.”
“I thought this was for education
al television,” said Wayne Glasscock, confused.
“Public television is reaching a larger audience every day. The networks are already very worried. And in view of our responsibilities, we can’t afford anything second-rate. So we’re dropping your Exchange in favor of a broader panorama.”
“That’s too bad,” said Glasscock cheerfully. “Of course, I wish you the best.”
“You may not like our film when it comes out,” Phibbs warned. “It’s going to cut pretty close to the bone.”
“Oh, I think I’ll survive,” said Glasscock before signing off.
Phibbs leaned back in his swivel chair and waited for his entourage’s reaction.
“You sure told him,” said a young man admiringly.
“He deserved it.” Sonia Libby was quite heated. “That was some kind of cooperation they gave us. I hope you’re going to let Eve Glasscock know how you feel.”
“There’s nothing to get excited about,” soothed Phibbs, every inch the white hunter. “Things are going to turn out much better this way. With my new plans we’re going to expose the whole money establishment. Oh, sure, everybody who counts already knows intellectually the greed and avarice that motivate the men who control this country. But they don’t feel it in their gut. My film is going to get to them like a kick in the stomach. Intellect won’t have anything to do with it.”
“I think you’re making the right decision, Craig,” said his second-in-command judiciously.
Phibbs ignored him. “By the time I’m done, my audience will see that unscrupulous hunger to make a buck, they’ll hear it, they’ll damn well taste it and smell it!”
His followers were rapt.
“This is going to be bigger than public television,” Craig decided, closing his eyes to view the future. “Natually we’ll wrap up PBS. Every station will buy the rights. Then the commercial boys won’t be able to stand it. Not when they see the ratings. The seepage will start in the big Eastern cities. They’re always the bellwethers. New York and Boston and Washington. We’ll move into the big time and start getting Johnny Carson prices. Before you know it, we’ll be sweeping commercial TV like a tidal wave.”
“Just like Julia Child!” cried the young man excitedly.
“No,” Phibbs frowned. “Not like Julia Child. . . . What’s this?”
The girl who entered might have been carrying the good news from Ghent to Aix. She did not quite fall down at the emperor’s feet as she deposited a large manila envelope.
“They’ve developed your shots from over at the Cocoa Exchange,” she said breathlessly.
Phibbs waved them away. “Put them in a basket. I’ve got no time for them now. Who cares about the Cocoa Exchange?” He laughed sardonically. “When you get right down to it, they’re just the first step in a bunch of candy bars.”
* * *
Fred Nagle took a different view of the place of the candy bar in modern America. He had just received the latest batch of orders from his despised son-in-law.
“If they’ll buy Old Glory from him, they’ll buy it from anybody,” he told his wife, gloating over the figures.
Helen knew her duty. “Oh, he’s not so bad,” she said without enthusiasm.
But Fred’s remark had been pro forma. Hereafter he would make it sound as if Old Glory was running around to the outlets by itself.
“They can’t keep it in stock,” he said jubilantly, “and you know what? Ted Kanelos tells me it’s the whole country, not just the Northeast.”
The Nagles had revised their first opinion of Madison Avenue. Now they were calling it up every day to get the latest news.
“What did he say?” asked Helen.
“The most successful advertising campaign in the history of Bridges, Gray & Kanelos. Already they’re taking action up in Dreyer. By the end of this quarter they expect to be over estimate. And by the end of next quarter . . .”
Chapter 18
The Etruscan Vase
In Dreyer, meanwhile, the Etruscan vase was changing hands. This transaction did not come a minute too soon for John Thatcher, who by now was surfeited with elaborate, graceful allusions to how great art transcends national boundaries.
Dr. Mercado and Signor Alizio, more inured to eloquence for its own sake, stood up to their ordeal well. Dr. Mercado, in fact, gave back better than he got, flooring the assembled dignitaries with the recital of a long, no doubt appropriate, portion of The Divine Comedy.
“Presso a color, che non veggon pur l’opra . . . Ma per entro i pensier miran col senno . . .”
Naturally the subsequent rush to the bar assumed stampede proportions. It was not until they had drinks in hand that Thatcher realized conching rollers were not Dreyer’s only current attraction for the Italians.
“The hospitality of the Dreyer Company is most munificent,” Signor Alizio began. “They have provided us with quarters in the Staatskill Hotel.”
“They’ve given us the biggest damned suite I’ve ever seen,” Dr. Mercado supplemented, with a descriptive sweep of his arms that imperiled a passing tray. “Anybody would think we represented Nestlé’s.”
They were even more important than that, Thatcher reminded them. Their generosity was sparing the Dreyer Museum a lawsuit, and the company was duly grateful.
“Not at all, not at all,” both Italians disclaimed politely before relapsing into gloom.
“Everything is just as it should be,” said Alizio, allowing a wistful note to creep into his voice. “It is merely that . . .”
“Yes?” encouraged Thatcher.
Mercado took a deep breath. “We wanted to be in the other hotel.” Seeing the bewilderment on Thatcher’s face, he amplified. “The one where the murder happened.”
Thatcher should have known. While their hosts had been reading the Proceedings of the Royal Society and Art Annual, the Milanese had been devouring the popular press. For the first time it looked as if the Sloan could make a meaningful contribution to the current festivities.
“I myself am staying at the Royal Dutch Motel,” he explained. “Perhaps we could slip quietly away from here and have a drink in my room?”
* * *
As they passed under the lighted archway, Thatcher realized at once that his luck was in. The inner courtyard was deserted except for one lone figure. It was not the criminal revisiting the scene of his crime. It was Captain Huggins of the Dreyer police.
Thatcher revealed his mission at once. “Good evening, Captain. I was about to show Dr. Mercado and Signor Alizio here where Dick Frohlich was murdered.”
The captain took his responsibility toward guests of the company as seriously as everyone else in town did.
“I was just brushing up on the geography myself,” he admitted. “The pool is where Frohlich was finished off, but it’s the rest of the setup that’s interesting.”
Two pairs of intelligent dark eyes absorbed the basic facts quickly.
“There is only one entrance to this courtyard,” Alizio announced after a moment’s survey. “The way we have just come.”
“More or less,” Huggins agreed. “If you don’t count the rooms themselves.”
As the tenant of one of those rooms on the night of the murder, Thatcher appreciated the implications of the captain’s accuracy.
“You did say that there were signs the murderer waited in ambush here somewhere, didn’t you, Captain?” he asked.
“Someone sure as hell did. Over in those bushes.” Captain Huggins led the way to a tall clump of ornamental shrubbery lying in deep shadow.
“You’d be practically invisible here, so long as you kept quiet. No need to worry about being spotted by people returning to their rooms or looking out the window. But at the same time—”
He was not allowed to continue. Dr. Mercado had entered the spirit of things by diving into the rhododendrons and taking his own line of sight.
“Yes, that lantern over the archway acts like a spotlight. You could recognize your victim the minute he stepped under it—
and have plenty of time to sneak up behind him.”
Signor Alizio had remained decorously on the paved walk, but he was still an enthusiastic collaborator in the reconstruction.
“It might not be necessary to move at all, Umberto,” he said, staring somberly at the courtyard. “It would be dependent on the victim’s movements.”
Huggins nodded as if he were dealing with promising rookies. “That’s right. Frohlich’s room was on the same side as those bushes, so his path took him right in front of that rhododendron. In fact he fell into it when he was slugged. If you look closely, you can still see some of the broken branches.”
But Latin zeal was tempered by fastidiousness. Instead of accepting the captain’s invitation, Mercado removed himself from the site of the attack, dusted his hands, and faced the pool. “Poor guy! I suppose he was dumped in there, and then the murderer beat it.”
Thatcher had no hesitation in agreeing with the final conclusion. “After all, no matter how careful the murderer was, there must have been a certain amount of noise. He couldn’t be sure that someone wouldn’t look out.”
“The odds were in his favor,” Huggins argued. “We’ve talked to every occupant of this courtyard. They were all home before Frohlich and they had all gone to bed. At that hour and with every light turned off, the murderer didn’t have to worry too much. He could figure on at least a minute’s head start, and that would be enough to get out of the courtyard, back to where his car was.”
“He couldn’t know that everyone was home,” Thatcher objected. “Not unless he’d studied the motel’s registration book. And that isn’t likely, if he was the same one telephoning hotels to find out where Frohlich was spending the night.”
Huggins fell back on his long experience. “So he took a chance. Most murderers do. But he was pretty safe. It was after one by the time that poker game broke up. And Dreyer isn’t New York City. The hamburger joints stay open an hour after the last movie, and then everybody goes to bed.”