Accounting for Murder

by Emma Lathen

  “This business about somebody stealing the expense account records.” Richter seemed to have no objection to discussing National’s business in front of Katrina. Absentmindedly, he helped himself from the tray. “First of all, National isn’t a very lavish firm. Oh, there’s the usual company joyriding. Junkets to San Francisco and that sort of thing. But as far as European trips, yachts, estates on Long Island Sound, well, there isn’t anything of that magnitude. Secondly, if there were, it wouldn’t do any good to hook the papers. Stanley Draper would still know all about it. You know Draper? He’s the accountant in charge of expenses. And he’s got an indelible memory.” An old grievance absorbed Richter’s attention for a moment. “Do you know he tried to tackle me once about taxi fares to New Jersey? Said it would be cheaper to use a company car! Little squirt.”

  “Well, he sounds conscientious, anyway. He certainly ought to remember anything really big.”

  “Come to think of it, Draper should be well worth questioning. You know he’s got the office next to the one where Fortinbras was working. I remember now that when Fortinbras was making all that fuss about stolen papers—and it looks as if he was right, doesn’t it?—Draper was dancing around, making a fool of himself. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was in his office while the murder was being committed. And to do him justice,” said Richter with the air of one giving the devil his due, “he notices a hell of a lot. Not what you really want in somebody who’s handling executive expense accounts. It needs a little tact. But he might be useful from your point of view.”

  “You’re right,” said Thatcher. “Draper seems to have been strangely overlooked. For that matter, so has Mrs. Cobb.”

  “What about Mrs. Cobb?” asked Richter sharply.

  “I don’t see where she fits into the picture,” remarked Thatcher mildly.

  “Dr. Cobb is assistant manager of the R & D Division. She is an extremely able executive and a distinguished scientist.” Richter’s voice ended on a distinct snap.

  Thatcher raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure she is. That isn’t exactly what I had in mind. I meant her position in this whole Fortinbras affair. Did she resist his invasion of the company the way everybody else did? I couldn’t help noticing at our meeting the other day that, while she was very reserved, she was also very upset.” “Naturally she was upset.” Richter flushed with annoyance. “It’s enough to make anybody—”

  But a new entrant joined the conversation. “This woman, she is a scientist? That is very unwomanly.” Katrina Tametz brooded disapprovingly for a moment, then smiled confidingly up at Robichaux. “Me, I am very womanly!”

  “Good for you,” said Robichaux enthusiastically.

  “Josie! Come here and meet some people,” called Richter, capitalizing on the interruption.

  A small, wiry woman detached herself from a group of people gathered around a bespectacled youth reading from a crumpled manuscript. She was wearing a black leotard covered by a sleeveless and full-flowing smock striped in orange and yellow. Introductions followed.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Thatcher,” she chirped, “Georgi has told me all about you. How interesting that you should be an expert on Balkan folk songs.”

  Thatcher eyed her with misgivings. “Oh, it’s nothing at all,” he said modestly.

  “We need some refills here, Josie. I’ll get them.”

  “Wait, Morrie. I’ll come with you. I had to borrow some ice. We’re running out.” She skipped off at the side of her husband.

  Robichaux chuckled. “Saved by the bell, John. I bet she’s got a Serb poet somewhere you ought to meet.”

  “What a perfectly extraordinary garment,” said Thatcher weakly.

  Robichaux hugged Katrina affectionately. “Very unwomanly,” he said disapprovingly.

  “No,” said Katrina surprisingly. “She is right. If you have a figure not at all, then it is best to shroud the body in mystery.

  There was a dampened silence until Richter returned. Thatcher took up the conversation instantly. He had a feeling that Time’s winged chariot, in the form of a Serb poet, was pressing at his heels.

  “You know, Richter,” he said significantly, “since the confirmation of Fortinbras’s ideas about stolen papers, the police are working on the theory that criminal fraud, rather than sheer ineptitude, is responsible for the bad showing at National.”

  Richter considered the possibility dispassionately. The idea was obviously not new to him. “Very possible,” he said quietly. “After all, people don’t commit murder without a strong motive. But you have to approach this thing logically. The basic situation is very simple. When you talk about the ‘bad showing’ at National, you mean the net profits are too low. Now,” he said, warming to his theme and allowing a professorial tone to swell his volume, “what are net profits? They are a figure in a very simple equation.” He paused dramatically and took a refreshing sip from his glass.

  It occurred to Thatcher that everybody was slightly drunk. He himself was still abstemiously consuming his first glass of brandy. But Richter and Robichaux, in a smooth businesslike manner, had downed a remarkable number of brandies in a very short time. Tom was now whispering in Katrina’s ear while she tickled the end of his nose with a strand of long red-gold hair.

  Setting down his glass, Richter resumed his lecture. “Net profits are the difference between the total income from your sales and the cost of producing the goods sold. If your profits are too low, then either your costs are too high or your price is too low. Mathematically, there are no other possibilities.”

  “What’s that about prices being too low?” inquired Robichaux, removing himself from Katrina’s hair and rubbing his nose thoughtfully. Possibly it itched. “Are you talking about Rutledge?”

  “No,” said Richter impatiently, “Rutledge’s profits are what’s keeping National in the black. There’s no room for fraud there,” he added reluctantly. Rutledge was no favorite of his. “I’m talking about Blaney. He makes the same components as Rutledge, but he doesn’t make the same profits. His costs are too high—he says. I saw him slinking out of the offices of one of our suppliers the other day.”

  There was a nasty silence. “You realize what you’re saying,” said Thatcher at length. He disliked getting information in this way, but there was no denying that Richter’s theory would explain a good deal.

  “Well,” said Richter defiantly, “it wouldn’t be the first time a division manager took a kickback from a supplier, and let the supplier set his own prices. You can’t get around the fact that Blaney’s costs are about twice as high as Rutledge’s.”

  “I see. You’ve been doing some comparison studies, I take it,” suggested Thatcher delicately.

  “As much as you can in a company that doesn’t let one division have access to another division’s figures. I have every right to,” said Richter heatedly.

  “Sure,” said Robichaux amiably. “More power to you.”

  “And let me tell you one thing. There may be a few changes at National before all this is over. Richter drained his glass, and came to an abrupt halt.

  “And what will the changes be?” asked Thatcher.

  But Richter had recovered himself, and now spoke with more moderation. “I can’t really tell. But I don’t think you’ll be going far wrong to count on the new management containing, among others of course, Allen Hammond, Jay Rutledge, and me.”

  Thatcher nodded thoughtfully. So that was Richter’s game. It was really obvious. If Richter could talk Hammond and Rutledge into a triumvirate, then the three could be assured of survival and possibly elevation while public clamor was quieted by the removal of Blaney and Mason. But exactly how did they plan the removal? It looked very much as if railroading Harry Blaney was to be part of the strategy. Thatcher frowned thoughtfully. It would be interesting to hear the views of Hammond and Rutledge. But not half so easy. They were neither of them chatterboxes. Thatcher decided there was nothing more to be learned from Morris Richter.

  “Well, that’s all
very interesting, Richter,” he said, setting his glass down with finality, “You’ve been very helpful and forthcoming. I’ll tell Mason what you said.”

  Richter paled.

  “About the stolen expense accounts, of course,” continued Thatcher smoothly. “And we certainly shall look up young Draper. Ready, Tom?”

  “You go ahead, John,” said Robichaux muzzily. “I’ll stay behind if Richter doesn’t mind a self-invited guest.” Richter made host like noises.

  Katrina smiled enigmatically.

  Thatcher thought of old Barnwell at Barnwell and McBridge. His duty was clear.

  “Come on, Tom. We promised to have a report by tomorrow. We’ve still got a lot of work to do tonight.”

  Robichaux wavered.

  Katrina laid a large and shapely hand coaxingly on his arm. Robichaux looked down at her.

  “We can do it tomorrow morning, John,” he said.

  “Now, look, Tom—”

  “Yoo hoo, Mr. Thatcher! Don’t go away!”

  Thatcher looked up and saw Josie Richter bearing down on him with two men. One was Georgi, reeling slightly, but cradling his balalaika tenderly in one hand and making huge detaining gestures with the other. The other man, Thatcher could feel it in his bones, was a Serb poet. To hell with Tom! He was old enough to take care of himself. You didn’t see old Barnwell making a nursery maid out of himself.

  “Yoo hoo!”

  Thatcher fled.

  Chapter 12

  Enter Regina

  By eleven-thirty the next morning Robichaux had still not returned the call which Thatcher made to his office promptly at nine o’clock. Annoyed, but scarcely surprised, Thatcher had spent the time very profitably with Walter Bowman, chief of the Research Staff. The research staff, of course, kept the Sloan supplied with information on its present investments. But it’s more important function by far was the discovery and development of new investment opportunities.

  Bowman’s intelligence agents were deployed around the financial section, alert for the slightest hint of a new company, a new expansion, a new financing. The results of their activities were placed before the Investment Committee at one of its weekly meetings by their chief. Occasionally, however, when Walter Bowman anticipated strenuous objections to one of his pet prospects, he tried to recruit a supporting claque before the Committee meeting. And he had just passed two hours laying the groundwork for the incorporation of John Thatcher into such a claque. The conversation had opened with a discussion of the product.

  “They’ve developed this cheap process for turning out plastic covered loose-leaf notebooks. Cuts the cost by 60 percent.”

  “What’s so special about a plastic cover? Is it transparent?”

  “No, no. It’s black. Looks better, lasts longer, resists scratching,” Walter said persuasively. “Orders are pouring in.”

  They moved on to a spirited analysis of the probable market. Bowman dwelt fervently on the swelling school population, the increase in educational spending, the conversion of industry to the ring binder for record keeping.

  Next came the need for expansion. Capacity must be quadrupled at the very least, according to Bowman. “The demand is going to be there. They’ve got to be able to meet it.”

  “Well, it sounds pretty interesting, Walter. I’d like to see your report.”

  Bowman laid the folder on the table. “It makes good reading, John. The projected financials and cash flow are in the back.” He rose to leave, satisfied with his interview. This was as much as he had hoped for. It was axiomatic that Thatcher never made an investment decision in Bowman’s presence. “Walter’s enthusiasm,” Thatcher had been heard to explain, “is as infectious as German measles. He missed a great career as a confidence man.”

  True to his word, Thatcher settled down to devote himself to the research reports. He was engaged in the fine art of picking holes in the projected financials when Miss Corsa buzzed him.

  “Mr. Robichaux will be on the line in a moment, Mr. Thatcher,” she announced.

  Obediently, Thatcher depressed the button that connected him with the outside world. He was familiar with the situation. Robichaux and Devane was notorious for refusing alien secretaries the privilege of direct communication with its senior partners. First put your principal on, then we’ll put our partner on. Surely there must be exceptions, thought Thatcher. Idly he speculated on the possibilities. The President of the United States? Nikita Khrushchev? The Pope? The last appealed to him.

  Clicks and buzzes heralded the approach of a partner. Contact was established. Robichaux, while more subdued than usual, was in the best of spirits.

  “You know, John,” he said chattily, after an exchange of preliminaries, “that Katrina is a very interesting woman.”

  Thatcher was curt. “No doubt. Remember to tell Barnwell all about her. He’ll be interested. In case you’ve forgotten, we agreed to go to National today. Let’s go!”

  “National?” questioned Robichaux artlessly.

  “National Calculating!” Sadistically, Thatcher raised his voice to a bellow worthy of Robichaux at his best. “We’re going to talk to somebody called Draper and to that leftover from your misbegotten childhood, Chip Mason.”

  “Anything you say, John. No need to shout,” said Tom plaintively. “And maybe we could stop for a bite on the way.”

  “Is it time for lunch?” Thatcher looked at his watch. He had not realized that it was after twelve.

  “No. Breakfast,” Robichaux admitted unrepentantly.

  “Oh, meet me at Child’s,” snarled Thatcher.

  Fortified by breakfast, Robichaux was prepared to turn his mind to the problems of National.

  “You think this Draper really may know something the police haven’t shaken out of him yet?” he asked as he stood with Thatcher in the lobby of the Southern Bourbon Building waiting for the elevator to take them to the sixteenth floor.

  “Nothing that could be used in evidence,” replied Thatcher. “After all, the fact that he had the office next to Fortinbras would be the sort of thing the police would be onto immediately. But I talked with Henry Addison this morning. He’s the accountant we sent down here. And he’s been impressed by the fact that Draper followed Fortinbras around like a shadow. Looked up to him as a great man, and drank in every word. Quite apart from his knowledge of the expense accounts, Draper may have some idea of the direction Fortinbras’s suspicions were taking.”

  “You don’t think he’d have told the police?” asked Robichaux dubiously.

  “Not if he just had a hint dropped by Fortinbras. After all, he works for these people. He’s not likely to rush into accusations he can’t substantiate.”

  Robichaux refrained from answering as the elevator arrived and they were joined by a rush of National employees returning from lunch. Several of them exchanged nods and greetings with the two men. Robichaux and Thatcher were becoming familiar sights, and a number of people were under the impression that they had recently joined the payroll. Their treatment at the hands of the receptionist would have served to confirm such a belief. She contented herself with waving them on into Mary Sullivan’s bailiwick.

  Mary Sullivan, although severely tried by the events of the past week, was still maintaining the standards of the front offices. She greeted them cordially and announced that Mr. Mason would be delighted to learn of their arrival.

  But Thatcher could hear the sound of voices from behind the door to the chief executive’s office. “There’s no need for us to disturb Mr. Mason while he’s busy. We wanted to speak with a Mr. Stanley Draper first, anyway. If you could arrange that for us,” he suggested, “we’ll come back here later.”

  A wealth of meaning entered Mary Sullivan’s voice. “But Mr. Mason would be delighted to see you now. It wouldn’t be an interruption at all.”

  Thatcher had no problem interpreting this hint. More trouble. Scarcely surprising. He cocked his head in an attempt to understand the voices. There seemed to be a good many.


  “Doesn’t sound very friendly,” remarked Robichaux cheerfully.

  “All right,” capitulated Thatcher.

  Miss Sullivan immediately did things with her intercom and received a terse instruction from her employer.

  “Will you go right in, Mr. Thatcher?” she invited with a grateful smile.

  Robichaux and Thatcher entered upon a crowded scene, and their appearance caused the participants to freeze in a tableau suggesting the curtain scene of Act Two. The center of the stage was held by a medium sized elderly woman dressed in a mink coat which the knowledgeable Robichaux immediately eyed with respect. She was standing bolt upright with her right forefinger dramatically extended toward a red-faced Mason who was mopping his brow with a large initialed handkerchief. Grouped around these two protagonists were all the leading lights of National’s management.

  “Come in, come in,” trumpeted Mason in a desperate sort of welcome. “I don’t believe you’ve met Mrs. Plout.”

  Regina Plout brushed aside introductions. “I am secretary-treasurer of the National Calculating Stockholders Protest Committee. We are going to carry on Clarence Fortinbras’s work, and you can’t stop us.”

  “Now, Mrs. Plout—”

  “Don’t think just because you’ve managed to murder Clarence, you can stop us from continuing our audit.”

  A subdued hubbub rose at this accusation. Allen Hammond said they should all calm down and talk things over quietly; his remarks were drowned out by Blaney’s roar of protest and Rutledge’s commendation that Mrs. Plout moderate her language. Richter made reference to the law of slander, and Mrs. Cobb to the manners of a juvenile delinquent. Regina Plout happily settled down to take on all comers. Everybody started shouting.

  In the midst of these proceedings a familiar face appeared at Thatcher’s side.

  “Good Heavens, Lee, what are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Thatcher.” Edward Lee quietly shook hands. “I, too, am on the stockholders’ committee. I thought Mrs. Plout should have a witness for her meeting with Mason.” He nodded over to the corner where Regina Plout was now energetically prodding her finger into Mason’s chest.