Banking on Death

by Emma Lathen

  Emma Lathen Political Mysteries

  As R. B. Dominic

  1.Murder Sunny Side Up 1968. Agriculture.

  2.Murder in High Place 1969. Overseas Travelers.

  3.There is No Justice 1971. Supreme Court.

  4.Epitaph for a Lobbyist 1974. Lobbyists.

  5.Murder Out of Commission 1976. Nuke Plants.

  6.The Attending Physician 1980. Health Care.

  7.Unexpected Developments 1983. Military.

  Tom Walker Mysteries

  Patricia Highsmith Style

  Deaver Brown, Author

  01.18. Football & Superbowl.

  02.Abduct. Sexual Misconduct.

  03.Body. Planned Eliminations for Money.

  04.Comfortable. Avoiding Consequences.

  05.Death. Wrong Place at the Wrong Time.

  06.Enthusiast. Opportunity Murder.

  07.Fraud. Taking Your Chances.

  08.Greed. Heirs Who Know Better.

  09.Heat. Heir Arrogance.

  A similarly popular Simply Media mystery series.

  Financial & Other Facts

  Emma Lathen is all about the money not the emotion. In that light:

  1.To provide financial incentives for collectors, Simply Media and others savings on groups of 6 eBooks, and the SuperSku (learning from the Star Wars franchise) “all in” collection.

  2.Trust that we have all enjoyed this. But as Willie Nelson, Oscar Wilde, and others have said, we aren’t above the money. Stay well. And thanks from all of us on the Emma Lathen team.

  Deaver Brown, Publisher & Editor.

  www.simplymedia.com

  Chapter 1

  Principals & Interest

  Wall Street is the world’s money market. Hundreds of millions of dollars can change hands over lunch; the fate of a factory in Belgium or a mine in Michigan can be sealed when a banker dictates a letter. Two young physicists from California can raise money to expand a backyard tool shop into a missile-producing giant, British investors can buy a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, little old ladies in Paris can sell Imperial Russian Bonds—on Wall Street.

  All of this buying and selling—of stocks and bonds, of dollars and pounds, of wheat and cocoa—requires the skilled activity of thousands of specialists: traders, brokers, lawyers, analysts, underwriters, insurance agents, mutual fund agents, floor people—and messengers, bankers, typists, statisticians, file clerks, editors, salesmen, tipsters, Dow theorists, and consultants.

  It also requires talk.

  Outside, gray December clouds promised snow and hapless pedestrians scurried along, collars upturned against the sharp wind. But high above the street, modern heating effectively sealed the conference room against the weather; there was only the lingering pungency of cigar and cigarette smoke.

  “That was a good meeting,” Walter Bowman said, as he shoveled papers into a bulging brief case. “Short and sweet. I’ll be glad when we’ve sold those 20,000 shares of Cooper-Pipe, John.”

  The Sloan Guaranty Trust, although occupying a substantial site on Exchange Place, is, in fact, the heart of Wall Street. The third largest bank in the world, it is far too important to concern itself with, say, Christmas Savings Clubs; you go to an uptown branch for that. The Sloan invests, underwrites, and finances.

  Twice each month, the Investment Committee of the Trust Department meets to review these important operations. Senior trust officers and members of the Research Department convene in a glass-encased conference room on the fortieth floor for, with luck, a short round of self-congratulation, or occasionally, for a long session of disagreement and—because bankers are human—recrimination.

  Today’s session had been brief; there had been unusual unanimity of opinion. Whatever the reason—it might have been a sluggish stock market, or it might have been midwinter lethargy—it left the two men still sitting at the conference table in good spirits. Walter Bowman, chief of the research staff, because he had been able to persuade the committee to adopt his recommendations, and John Putnam Thatcher, senior vice-president and director of the trust department, because he loathed all meetings.

  The elevator eased itself to a cushioned halt at the sixth floor; Thatcher waited for the doors to open on the trust department, and for the play to begin. It was standard operating procedure for the floor receptionist to buzz the entire department when the tower elevator passed on its upward journey to collect him. Thatcher knew this and was grateful for a system which protected him from public knowledge of his juniors’ lack of assiduity. He savored the atmosphere of hectic activity which greeted him as he passed through the typists’ pool with appreciation. Each desk was occupied, each head bent over its keyboard, and each machine beat out a crisp staccato. In the file department, drawers were rolled briskly open and shut, clerks stared intently at odd pieces of paper and messenger boys moved down the aisles radiating a sense of purpose. The noise level dropped sharply on the other side of the double doors which separate the clerical force from the staff.

  Such division into haves and have-nots was the result of “functional creativity” practiced by the architect when the Sloan was last remodeled; it had been hailed with acclaim by Architectural Forum—and with relief by a filing staff periodically subject to raids upon the archives by officials too impatient to wait for the workings of normal channels. This arrangement, explained the architect, would enable trust officers to work in noiseless serenity and maintain the calm control so desirable in bankers. To Thatcher, the sepulchral silence that now enveloped his division was a perpetual irritant, evoking visions of furtive movements and whispered conferences.

  There was, however, nothing whispered about the angry voices which suddenly came to him as he turned to enter his own suite of offices.

  “Young woman,” growled a deep voice that was totally unfamiliar to him, “I have already explained to you that this is a matter of some importance and....”

  “Please, Mr. Snyder,” said Thatcher’s secretary in tones of genteel anger, “unless you have an appointment, I am afraid...”

  “It’s Schneider, if you don’t mind. Schneider, S-C-H-...”

  Thatcher advanced into the room and surveyed the disputants. Miss Corsa, usually lymphatically calm, stood defiantly behind her desk, prepared to defend it against assault. She was looking wildly at a heavy-set man in his middle fifties now brick-red with indignation. She greeted Thatcher with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

  “Oh, Mr. Thatcher, I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to explain to Mr. Snyder ...”

  “Yes, I heard you,” said Thatcher, turning courteously to his uninvited visitor. “Mr. Schneider is it?”

  While he was unprepared to countenance brawls in his office, he was curious about anyone who could ruffle Miss Corsa. Schneider, now that his choleric flush had subsided, seemed ordinary enough.

  “Yes, it’s Arthur Schneider. I’ve been trying to explain to your secretary that I’m in New York for only a day or two before going on to Chicago. Now I realize that you have many demands on your time—don’t we all?—but I’m inclined to agree with Grace that the simplest thing to do is for you and me to sit down together and thrash this thing out—I think it will save time for all of us in the end.”

  Thatcher bowed to the inevitable. Clearly it would be quicker to placate the man than to get rid of him, although who “Grace” was and what “this thing” was remained obscure. Accordingly he turned to Miss Corsa and in a brisk voice asked, “Am I free for the next half hour?”

  Miss Corsa, who valued routine, was not pleased with his capitulation but the request—which was actually a code that Thatcher had taught her with some difficulty—soothed her. She sat down and consulted an appointment book. Turning quickly to the pages she needed, she ran a pencil down a list.

  “You have an appointment with Mr. Withers at three, Mr. Thatcher,” she said without looking up.

  Both Thatcher and Schneider were spared the necessity of checking their watches; Miss Corsa coldly turned a sm
all desk clock to face them before she withdrew to her dictation book. It was two thirty-five.

  “Perhaps we can at least outline the situation in the little time we have,” Thatcher said. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Schneider?” Standing aside to let Schneider precede him into the office, he wondered if the name of the president of the Sloan Guaranty Trust would operate as powerfully on Arthur Schneider as it did on most of his visitors.

  Schneider marched triumphantly into the office, dropped his overcoat in one of the shabby, comfortable armchairs which Thatcher had retained in the face of spirited resistance by the Sloan’s interior decorators, settled in another, and launched into his narrative before Thatcher could sit down.

  “You’ll have guessed that this is about the Schneider Trust,” he said expansively. “Now that Hilda is dying, the matter of finding Robert has become critical. We can scarcely be expected to sit around indefinitely, waiting for him to give some sign of life. Quite apart from the annoyance, we have no assurance that he’s alive at all or that we ever will hear from him. I’m sure that you appreciate our position.”

  “Certainly,” lied Thatcher as he circled his desk: the Sloan handled more than 20,000 trusts, a fact Arthur Schneider might be pardoned for not knowing. On the other hand, the Schneiders seemed to be a very disorderly tribe; they were either dying, missing entirely from the scene or raising Cain in bank offices. He wondered if Schneider would drop any clues as to the nature of his problem.

  “Frankly, we are none too satisfied with the way that young man of yours is conducting the search. He seems to have no conception of the urgency of the situation or the amount of money involved. Now that Hilda is so near the end, Grace—and of course Martin and I—think that it would be ridiculous to allow further delays to confuse what is, Lord knows, a confused enough situation.”

  “Exactly,” murmured Thatcher absently. His attention had been riveted by the reference to a “young man” of his. Which of his underlings had been unfortunate enough to have to cope with Arthur and the somewhat sinister, if unknown, Grace? If it were really a young man, then this was one of the small trusts—the so-called nuisance accounts—on which beginners at the Sloan were allowed to cut their eye teeth. They were legacies of another age; today the Sloan accepted no trust under a million dollars. But, remembering Schneider’s treatment of Miss Corsa, Thatcher realized that he might be using the word “young” as an abusive rather than a descriptive epithet, in which case the trust involved might be very substantial. The course of wisdom was to confine himself to noncommittal remarks until he had more information. Fortunately Arthur Schneider seemed to require very little prompting from his collocutor. He was once again in full flight.

  “... and I have been trying to impress on Nicolls that unless he can get results in the very near future—that is to say, before Hilda dies—then it would be nonsense to hold up distribution of the estate until we can determine Robert Schneider’s whereabouts. Lord knows the whole thing has been muddled enough already!” Schneider paused, apparently for breath, while Thatcher concentrated on the one familiar name that had come his way. Ken Nicolls was the trust officer. A small estate then, but giving plenty of trouble. They always did, he reflected. Arthur’s basic complaint, however, seemed directed against his relatives and not against Nicolls. Poor Hilda’s only offense seemed to be in the manner of her dying, unlike that fellow in Macbeth. Robert must be the real difficulty.

  “Of course, the Sloan doesn’t handle many missing heir problems these days. Life has become too much a matter of files and records for that,” John essayed tentatively.

  “It’s typical of Robert,” retorted Arthur bitterly. “I wouldn’t put it past him to do this deliberately. After all, he’s still a young man and we know that he came out of the Second World War all right. I ask you, is it reasonable that a man should drop out of sight completely when he knows he’s coming into a $100,000?”

  “Certainly not,” said Thatcher, his banker’s instincts revolted at the suggestion.

  “You can see how it makes everything most irregular.” Schneider was quick to sense sympathy. He was now settling down to say what he had come for. “Of course, I do see that as trustees you must exercise every reasonable precaution, and I assure you that I have explained this in great detail to Grace. It wasn’t easy”—he frowned in retrospect—”but she now realizes the nature of your responsibilities. Naturally I sympathize with her problems. We could all use some more money, and I think we have found a way to satisfy everybody. In any event I have promised her that I would put the facts clearly before you.”

  “Very wise,” said Thatcher judiciously, wondering if the foregoing conversation represented a fulfillment of that promise. He hoped that Grace was Arthur’s wife. So much nattering from any other woman would really be intolerable, but Schneider’s general posture was not that of the henpecked husband. “You said, I think, that any further delay in the distribution of the trust could be avoided. What did you have in mind?”

  Schneider hitched himself forward in his chair and lowered his voice impressively. “A partial distribution—yes, a partial distribution. Now don’t say that you can’t,” he went on, stabbing his pipe in Thatcher’s direction, “before you see the justice of this. It may take years to locate Robert. After all, when Hilda dies, the money legally belongs to us. All we want is to have what is ours. It’s outrageous that we should be kept kicking our heels until Robert shows up. Which he will,” he concluded sourly.

  Thatcher discovered that he had been laboring under a misconception which was scarcely surprising under the circumstances. Apparently all the Schneiders were joint heirs to one trust fund, and Robert’s absence was raising the devil with the administration and disposition of the trust. This kind of mess should never have been left to young Nicolls, who was probably sweating blood. Or even worse, making rash promises which would compromise the bank’s freedom of action.

  John made a mental note to have a talk with Charlie Trinkam about the degree of supervision that was right and proper for the junior staff. On the other hand, unlimited exposure to the Schneiders might turn Nicolls into a better and a tougher trust officer.

  “What did you plan to do with Robert’s share?” he inquired.

  “Naturally that would be held in trust for him by the bank,” replied Arthur with dignity. There was now no doubt in Thatcher’s mind but that the Schneiders were important to the life of whatever town they infested. Himself born and bred in Sunapee, New Hampshire, he recognized the leading family syndrome if anybody did. But premature distribution of trusts was also a matter about which he knew a great deal.

  “You understand Mr. Schneider, that we are generally very reluctant to ...”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Schneider interrupted, “we realize that this presents a great many problems for the bank, and we are prepared to assist in every way.” His grievances again threatened to deflect him. He tapped his foot impatiently. “This is a sort of penalty for those of us who have stayed at home and taken care of the family business while Robert wanders to Lord knows where without giving any sign of life. Nor is there any reason for this kind of behavior.” He warmed to his subject: “Completely unreasonable. We may have been unsympathetic to some of his more outrageous activities.... However, that’s neither here nor there. I have already pointed out to Grace that we must cooperate to the hilt. We’re ready to do everything we can to help you find him. Not that that’s much, I’m afraid. He’s been gone over fifteen years, you know.”

  “Indeed, I didn’t realize that it was so long,” said Thatcher with perfect truth.

  This remark appeared to gratify Schneider. “Yes, it’s been over fifteen years. You should know that we’ve discussed this with our attorneys and we want to be perfectly reasonable—about posting bonds and that sort of thing—and I daresay that you’re just as anxious as we are to have the trust closed out and off your hands.”

  Thatcher was instantly alerted by the mention of attorneys. Was thi
s a delicate hint that the Schneiders were preparing to go to court for an order directing a partial distribution? He contemplated his visitor, then relaxed. There was nothing delicate about Arthur Schneider, and if a court order were in the air it would be an attorney sitting across the desk. He decided to ignore the remark; instead he put a question that had been bothering him for some time.

  “And what has Nicolls said to this suggestion?”

  “Good heavens! I haven’t spoken to him about this. I knew he would need your approval for whatever he recommended. So it seemed much simpler to come straight to you and make sure you have a clear view of the situation.”

  Thatcher was genuinely amused by this view of executive authority at the Sloan and by the vision it conjured up of every single person with whom his subordinates came into contact lined up in his waiting room. But he was more pleased that Nicolls had not been required to make any hasty promises or harsh refusals. It took, Thatcher had concluded, five to ten years for a trust officer to learn the art of the gentle let-down. The period depended on the individual’s endowment of natural deceit. He himself had been an uncommonly quick learner, and now put his talent to practice.

  “I am, of course, delighted that you came,” he replied cordially. “I can say, quite honestly, that I had no idea of a partial distribution of the trust. That is, in the event of its becoming due for distribution.” He felt that it would be unseemly to refer to Hilda by her first name and had no idea what her last name was. He skirted further reference to her. “However I can assure you that your proposal will receive every consideration.”

  Schneider’s heavy-jawed face lit with a contented smile. “That’s all I ask,” he began, but his congratulations to Thatcher and the Sloan on their sagacity were cut short. Miss Corsa walked into the office.

  “Mr. Withers at three, Mr. Thatcher,” she announced while looking over Schneider’s head.