Murder to Go

by Emma Lathen

  “Christ, I don’t know how you can do it,” said Pelham Browne bluntly. “It’s been one helluva week. Really got to me.”

  He tossed a flamboyant topcoat on the sofa and settled across from Hedstrom.

  “Listen, Frank,” he said, “my wife and I were just having a weekend in New York. Hell, I thought I deserved it after this damned chicken scare. Then I caught the news about Chicken Tonight. Do you know any more?”

  Browne, owner of Browne Poultry, Inc., supplied nearly two thirds of Chicken Tonight’s requirements for Pennsylvania, New Jersey and parts of New York State.

  Ted Young looked up from the paper he was checking. “The trouble is in our Mexicali mix,” he said abruptly. “That’s all anybody knows so far. Your chickens have been used in our other dishes, and there hasn’t been any trouble.”

  Browne heaved a noisy sigh of relief. “It would be a terrible responsibility to live with. Of course, our birds are all inspected—”

  He broke off, belatedly aware of Young’s open contempt. Hedstrom, he noted, remained expressionless. Browne was spared the need to dig himself out of his own blundering by the phone.

  “Hedstrom here. . . . What? . . . Yes, Carl. It’s terrible. We’re hoping that by the end of the weekend it will be over. . . . What? . . . Why, then we’re going to pitch in and triple the advertising budget, for openers. . . . Sure I know this puts the squeeze on you fellows, but remember, it’s temporary. We’re going to pull through. . . . Yes. . . . Thanks for calling.”

  Hedstrom put the phone down. “Carl Zabriskie,” he explained. “He runs three Chicken Tonights in Buffalo. Worried as hell—and I don’t blame him. This is catching our people hard, Browne.”

  Pel Browne’s jowly face crinkled into heavy sympathy. “Boy, I sure hope you’re right, Frank. About reopening soon, I mean. Otherwise those chickens you have to buy from me will be a dead loss for you, won’t they?”

  Young made no effort to hide his derision. “That’s the problem, Browne. If we stay closed for three or four weeks, why, we have to keep paying you for chickens we can’t use. Because you’ve got a contract. And you’re going to stick to it, aren’t you?”

  Browne was genuinely startled. “Well, what else can I do? You contracted for an eight-week supply, didn’t you? I’ve already laid out money for feed and supplies—”

  Hedstrom cut him off. “Don’t worry. We’re honoring our contracts. We can still meet our obligations.”

  Browne’s open satisfaction goaded Ted Young. “But just ask yourself what happens when this contract runs out,” Ted said viciously.

  “Now, Ted . . .”

  “No, let him face it the way we have to. Either Chicken Tonight goes out of business, and Mr. Browne is left out in the cold, or else Chicken Tonight will be riding high again. Then we may be making other arrangements.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Browne blustered at him.

  Frank Hedstrom remained detached. “Nobody’s threatening anybody, Browne. Ted’s just giving you the picture. At the moment, we’re concentrating on getting back on our feet.”

  “Because I’ve been a damned good friend to Chicken Tonight,” Browne continued. He had the trick of not listening very much to others. “You know I’ve always given Chicken Tonight top priority. And hell, who’s been pushing the merger with Southeastern Insurance—Say!”

  Browne was stopped in his tracks. He blinked his prominent blue eyes once or twice. “My God,” he said slowly. “What about the merger now? I never thought . . .”

  “We’ve thought about the merger,” Hedstrom said quietly.

  But Browne rolled on. “The agreement is to swap stock at two for one,” he remembered aloud. “But when the stock market opens, and Chicken Tonight shares take a nose dive—Frank, what do you think Morgan Ogilvie will do?”

  Hedstrom shot a warning look at Ted Young. Then he said, “Ogilvie’s your friend. What do you think he’ll do?”

  For an instant Browne goggled at him. Then: “What do I think? I don’t have the slightest idea! Why should I? And what makes you think I’m in Ogilvie’s confidence?”

  Even to his own ears this was unconvincing.

  “The first vulture,” said Young when Browne finally talked himself out of the office. “Or maybe I mean rat.”

  Hedstrom looked at him soberly. “Ted,” he said, “we’re in bad trouble. It isn’t helping things when you lose control. You can’t blame Browne for holding us to those damned contracts. You can’t blame Ogilvie if he welshes on this merger. You can’t blame our franchisees when they cry. What would you do in their place?”

  Young muttered something inaudible, but Hedstrom went on. “Look, we’ve been in tight spots before, and we got through by keeping our cool. With luck, we’ll make it this time. But right now, Ted, you’re not helping a helluva lot.”

  Young bit his lip. Then, without a word, he turned and left the room.

  Hedstrom looked after him until the telephone again summoned him.

  “Hedstrom. . . . Oh, yes, Dr. Mosby. . . . What? Are you sure? Oh, yes, yes! Of course it’s good to hear that Chicken Tonight was not negligent in any way. . . . What? . . . What?”

  The voice at the other end of the line spoke at length, and, for once, Frank Hedstrom looked immature as well as young.

  “But, Dr. Mosby!” Hedstrom liked to spell things out, no matter how bad they were. “What you’re talking about is murder!”

  CHAPTER 6

  GREASE THE PAN

  IN VERY short order, John Putnam Thatcher too was talking about murder.

  “Look, Tom, will you please stop shouting and say what you want to say?” he demanded irately.

  Telephone exchanges with Robichaux were trial enough during the normal working day. From Friday to Monday (or Tuesday), Robichaux was rarely in the financial district. Away from Wall Street, he compensated for additional distance and bellowed incomprehensibly.

  Fortunately, since Robichaux’s comments were becoming more thunderously inarticulate by the moment, Walter Bowman strode unceremoniously into Thatcher’s office, brandishing a portion of the UP news wire.

  Murder, said one word.

  Without qualms, Thatcher hung up on the fulminations from an uptown steam room and obtained his information from the telegraphic word:

  Federal officials announce Chicken Tonight deliberately sabotaged. . . . Contaminants in Mexicali mix responsible last week’s mass food poisoning . . . now identified as zinc derivatives not used in food preparation. . . . Company officials silent possibility disgruntled employees or business competitors . . . DA states murder charge warranted. . . .

  The phone rang again. With Miss Corsa absent, Thatcher indulged himself and let Tom Robichaux stew in his own juice. Of course, with Miss Corsa on guard, Bowman would never have enjoyed such breezy access. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other, in normal times. But these trying Trinkam Anniversary days were not normal times. Hence Saturday morning at the Sloan for Thatcher, and for many of his subordinates. Although not, of course, for Charlie Trinkam.

  “You know, John,” said Bowman comfortably, “this doesn’t look so good.”

  “I suspect Robichaux is ready with a variation on just that theme,” said Thatcher, but sarcasm could not deflect Bowman.

  “I wasn’t happy about our twelve million when the whole chicken industry was supposed to be poisoned. Then, when it was only Chicken Tonight, I got a lot less happy. But now things really look bad. Somebody’s out to get Hedstrom.”

  “Oh, come, now,” said Thatcher. “It could be some passing lunatic.”

  Bowman, who inclined to a Machiavellian interpretation of American business, would not settle for a passing lunatic.

  “Maybe,” he said with a wealth of doubt. “But from where I sit, the whole setup is as phony as a three-dollar bill. Hedstrom is just the kind of guy to attract trouble. He runs a high-pressure operation. He was beating his competitors hollow. He was going places—fast. I’ll bet somebody was out t
o stop him. Well, I’d better get back to work.”

  He left Thatcher with food for thought. Finally, unable to put Bowman’s views from his mind, he took an unusual step. He tried to reach Maitland down in Commercial Credit, to discuss the Sloan’s current position vis-à-vis Chicken Tonight.

  Maitland was not in his office. Maitland was not at his home. (Maitland was driving to Syracuse to install his daughter in a freshman dormitory.)

  Balked by the phone, a state of affairs Miss Corsa did not tolerate, Thatcher thoughtlessly fell prey to it.

  “John!” Robichaux exploded when Thatcher answered. “What’s going on there? Now, listen, have you heard the latest? We’re going to have to do something. . . .”

  “But why does doing something involve driving to Trenton?” asked Thatcher early Monday morning as the Sloan limousine sped down the New Jersey Turnpike.

  Robichaux was letting his attention wander. “We can lunch at the Nassau Inn . . .”

  “I hope there’s a better reason than that,” Thatcher commented. He was sure there must be, but it was Frank Hedstrom who produced it.

  Hedstrom was waiting for them at Chicken Tonight’s giant Trenton distribution warehouse. This was a long modern building that was as carefully landscaped as its neo-Bauhaus neighbors in the Trenton Industrial Park. To all outward appearances, it was not only spankingly clean, it was antiseptic.

  As the limousine pulled up, Hedstrom hurried forward to greet them.

  “I thought,” he said after Robichaux had performed the introductions, “the Sloan might be interested in what’s come up.”

  “What now?” Robichaux rumbled as Hedstrom led them indoors to a severely elegant foyer. There was a decorative receptionist; there was a large sculpture on the wall over the foliage. And there was a small gray-haired man ensconced on the black leather sofa.

  “Mr. Denton,” said Hedstrom as the small man spryly rose to his feet.

  Mr. Denton, it developed, represented the Public Health people. He was one of their senior field men. He acknowledged introductions rather absently and plunged ahead.

  “Captain Johnson thought you’d be interested in hearing how we broke this,” he said. “Crackerjack work, if I say so myself.”

  Robichaux, Thatcher could see, was beginning to fret at all these promises of interesting material to come.

  “Who is Captain Johnson?” Robichaux asked peevishly, but Mr. Denton, who had an immense air of benign authority, was well and happily launched.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “There’s absolutely no question about it now. There was poison in the Mexicali mix, Mr. Hedstrom. Undeniably.”

  Hedstrom did not reply. But Robichaux protested.

  “Good God, the newspapers have been full of it! You don’t mean we came all the way down here—”

  Mr. Denton eyed him censoriously. “We have more than that.”

  During this exchange, Hedstrom had been leading them down a corridor. Now they entered a small office complete with desk.

  Mr. Denton was still talking. “As I say, we have more than that, although it took us time to get it. Most victims couldn’t talk to us until several days after their collapse, you understand. In the meantime we talked to their relatives and studied your distribution system. We started with this map.”

  Mr. Denton shook out a large map of northeastern United States and laid it on the desk. A portion of the area had been outlined with thick black ink, and small red crosses were dotted irregularly throughout.

  “The black line includes the area serviced by your Trenton warehouse,” he said, using his pencil as a pointer. “The green circles show the location of individual Chicken Tonight franchises. The red crosses represent victims. You can see why those Cleveland cases bothered us.”

  Thatcher leaned over the map to follow the argument. All red crosses were within the black line except two in Cleveland, Ohio, which were almost a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest other victim.

  Hedstrom was nodding gloomily. “You thought other regional warehouses might be affected.”

  “Exactly.” Denton beamed at this ready comprehension. “I can’t tell you how relieved we were that the Cleveland cases pulled through and could talk to us. They turned out to be two college boys.”

  Robichaux, who was less familiar with the driving habits of the American public than his companions, was still mystified. But Hedstrom seemed to understand.

  “All-night drivers,” he said.

  “Yes. They were driving straight through from Boston to Wisconsin with no stops. At eleven o’clock at night they picked up some chicken Mexicali in New York State to have something to munch. They continued on, alternately sleeping and driving, and occasionally having a bite of chicken. It took much longer for the toxicity to build up than if they had had a regular meal. In fact, they made it to Cleveland before collapsing.”

  “Well, that pinpoints it at least.” Hedstrom accepted the inevitable. “All the poison came from this warehouse.” He looked at his bland neutral surroundings appraisingly.

  Denton now sprang his surprise. “Not necessarily from the warehouse. If you look at the map again, you will see that, although all the victims bought their chicken within the regional area, only certain franchises were affected. Many Chicken Tonight shops in this region served perfectly wholesome chicken Mexicali.”

  “God knows what they have on their shelves!”

  “Now, now.” Mr. Denton was reproachful. “Naturally, we checked that. As soon as we knew it was a zinc additive, we worked out a field test. We went through your stocks here in the warehouse.”

  “And?”

  “Absolutely clean. Then we went through the stocks and pumps of your franchises—with some rather interesting results.”

  Thatcher could see that they had fallen into the hands of an enthusiast. “And what did those results tell you, Mr. Denton?”

  “They gave us a distribution pattern. What’s more, the pattern told us that all the poison had been delivered by the same truck, on the same round. It even gave us something else.” Mr. Denton’s voice ended on a note of triumph.

  Frank Hedstrom wasn’t playing any games. “What was that?” he asked sharply.

  “The truck did not start to deliver poisoned Mexicali until after it had made its first few stops. So I played a hunch. I asked for the driver’s time sheet for that particular round. And, sure enough, there had been a truck breakdown early in the morning which forced the driver to leave his truck unattended for an hour. Consequently, he was late for all subsequent deliveries.”

  Mr. Denton flourished his glasses at this climax.

  “That was good work, Mr. Denton,” said Hedstrom unenthusiastically. “But it still leaves a lot up in the air. Unless you claim somebody with a pocketful of poison just happened to stumble across that abandoned truck?”

  “And then,” said Thatcher, equally skeptical, “casually broke in and did a massive adulteration job, when the truck driver was likely to reappear any minute.”

  Mr. Denton deprecated their attitude. “Certainly not! The breakdown of the truck must have been engineered. And, in any event, the boxes of mix are sealed. I should think you’ll find that substitution was involved. But there is only so much that we at the Public Health can do. At this point I turned my findings over to the State Police. I understand they’ve made further strides. Captain Johnson wanted you to have this background.”

  “Oh, that’s who this Johnson is,” Robichaux began.

  “You’ve been most helpful,” Thatcher said hastily. Frank Hedstrom was lost in thought.

  “Captain Johnson is waiting for you in Willoughby. But there is just one further item. You know how your trucks are loaded with mix?” Mr. Denton looked dubiously at Frank Hedstrom. He had learned that the most obvious details of operation were often a secret to the front office.

  But Hedstrom had every detail of Chicken Tonight at his fingertips. “Four boxes deep, four boxes high and as wide
as necessary to fill the orders,” he replied.

  “See what I mean about Hedstrom?” Robichaux whispered at this display of expertise.

  Denton, meanwhile, had become a seer, eyes closed, fingertips together. His body rocked slowly back and forth.

  “I do not say it is certain, mind you, but it is probable, extremely probable, that you will find that every sixteenth box has been adulterated.”

  “I figure it out,” Captain Johnson said, after laborious calculations on the back of a dirty envelope, “as one out of every sixteen boxes.”

  They were standing in the parking lot behind Chicken Tonight in Willoughby, New Jersey. A light wind playfully sent leaves scuttling across the asphalt while clear autumn sunlight bathed the scene in brilliant visibility. Thatcher had rarely seen Tom Robichaux looking more out of place.

  “You can see how this joker pulled off the job,” the captain continued. “He was here, ready and waiting, when the warehouse truck arrived. The driver made his delivery to the Akerses, and then he had a cup of coffee. Apparently that’s standard routine.” The big policeman looked a question at Hedstrom.

  “That’s right. Every driver has coffee somewhere along his route. And this driver isn’t new, Captain. He’s been employed by us for over two years. He’s just new to this route.”

  “We’ll come to that later. I just want you to get the picture. The driver has his coffee. When he comes out, he starts up and discovers his fan belt is broken. So he goes inside, tells the Akerses, borrows a car and sets off to get a new one. I suppose that’s in order?”

  Hedstrom was scrupulously fair to his employees. “Those are our standard instructions to drivers. If they need replacements of standard small units, like fan belts and spark plugs, they buy them locally, get a receipt and continue with the job. Of course, in the event of a major breakdown they’re required to call in.”

  “OK, so you can see what happened. Our joker frayed through the fan belt while the driver was having coffee. Then there’s a good hour free for the doped boxes to be substituted.”

  “You’re sure it was a substitution?” Hedstrom asked. He was frowning as if he saw some unpleasantness ahead. “You do realize that there wouldn’t have to be any stirring of the poison. These mixes are emptied into a pump which reconstitutes them and does a thorough stirring in the process.”