Banking on Death

by Emma Lathen

  “And he didn’t say a word about being a part owner of Buffalo Industrial?”

  She laughed shortly. “Nothing. I didn’t know anything. I haven’t had a cent from him for two years. I just gave up. Don’t you see?”

  Self thought he did, but he said nothing. She punched the side of her chair with a sort of suppressed rage. “He would have let his sons starve. How can people like that live?”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Self replied somewhat drily. “Now the problem is this killing. I have to try to place people. We can’t place you.”

  She looked steadily at him. “There’s nothing more that I can say, Captain. I was home grading papers all night; doing some ironing, perhaps. The boys were asleep. No matter how many times you ask me, I can’t tell you any more than that. Just grading papers. Working to support my sons.” Her voice broke.

  Your sons whom you carefully sent to Utica, Self thought. Aloud he said in a flat tone, “But, you see, you could have driven to Buffalo and back.”

  “In that blizzard?” she interrupted, with a sort of desperate sarcasm.

  “With chains,” he said.

  “Oh, Captain! Go out and look at the car. I don’t even dare drive it to school on bad days.” She pulled at her handkerchief angrily. “Please believe me. I admit that I hated him, Lord forgive me, I hated him for the way he treated me and his sons. But I didn’t kill him.” She looked at his impassive face, and added, “I wouldn’t kill my boys’ father.”

  “I hope not,” Self said as he stood. “I guess that’s all for—oh, can you think of anything small—about two by three inches, that your husband had that was valuable?”

  She looked at him hopelessly. “I’ve seen my husband twice in the last two years, Captain.”

  He nodded, and together they walked the few steps to the door, the good hostess ushering out the welcome guest. As she opened the door, Self glanced at the wreath; her eyes followed his, then she closed her eyes as if the light hurt them.

  In the same emotionless voice he used to ask questions Self said, as he looked at her, “You’d better try to get some rest, Mrs. Schneider.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” she replied. Shutting the door behind him, she leaned against it and expelled a long sigh. Get some rest. For what?

  She straightened up, went to the living room; automatically she plumped the cushions of the sofa where Self had been sitting. Looking around for the cups, she frowned slightly, then went to the kitchen where she found them neatly stacked in the sink. She stared at them with a kind of fascinated horror. Captain Self put my cups and saucers in my sink, she thought. Captain Self will put me into a prison. She turned abruptly and went into the living room where she sat down on the sofa and stared unseeingly ahead.

  The phone rang. She sat like a woman in a trance. Her mind was racing feverishly. What could she do? Had it been a mistake to send the boys away? The phone rang again, then with a note of exasperation, stopped suddenly.

  Kathryn Schneider forced herself to think about the murder of her husband. Motive: obvious, she thought. Opportunity? There was no way to convince Captain Self that she could not have driven the old wreck in the garage forty miles to Buffalo and back: verdict? thought Kathryn Schneider, verdict—guilty. She gave a sudden sob, and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. She brought out, instead, John Thatcher’s letter. She read it once again.

  I should do something about this, she thought. Legal counsel; she remembered with distaste the noisy little man whom Fred had gotten for her when she was in trouble with Bob. The thought of going to him with her troubles was intolerable. She drew a deep breath and made a decision. Walking to the hallway, she picked up the phone and waited for the operator. “I want long distance, please. Long distance? I want to talk to Mr. John Thatcher at the Sloan Guaranty Trust in New York City . . . No, only John Thatcher.”

  Chapter 11

  Guardians and Conservators

  Not until he was disposing of his coffee and sweet rolls, all that American Airlines provided passengers foolhardy enough to take Tuesday’s early morning flight from Boston to New York, did it occur with some force to Ken Nicolls that his superiors might reasonably inquire why a short interview with Arthur Schneider should have necessitated an overnight absence.

  Until that moment he had been very pleased with himself. He felt he had exercised considerable social adroitness in side-stepping Mrs. Schneider’s dinner invitation and in cutting Jane neatly out of her family circle. The evening had been an unqualified success, in spite of his initial qualms at letting Jane plan their activities. Four years of student life in Cambridge had left him with a deep and abiding suspicion of all genteel New England country restaurants. But Jane had swept him briskly off to a steak house called, appropriately enough, Ken’s, on the Worcester Turnpike where they were regaled with impeccable clam chowder, magnificent steaks done exactly to order, a crisp salad, the noteworthy Ken’ salad dressing, and a flaky pecan pie. The management successfully resisted the temptation to intrude butterscotch rolls or sherbet-topped fruit salads into this menu, and Jane handled her meal in a workmanlike manner which suggested a complete lack of interest in diets.

  By that time Ken had been experiencing a powerful reluctance to end the evening. His tentative suggestion that they drive into Boston and find a quiet bar in which to while away the time until the last plane was very gratifyingly received. Over a moderate quantity of coffee and brandy, he and Jane explored their social, literary, musical, and athletic pleasures and prejudices so effectively that the last plane to New York had come and gone long before they were aware of it.

  And to cap it all, when Ken insisted that a meeting in the near future would be eminently desirable, Jane helpfully discovered that a shopping expedition to New York within the next few days had been on her agenda for some time. When they finally parted, equally pleased with each other, Ken returned to the Statler to pass the few remaining hours of the night in a state of euphoria which even the absence of a toothbrush could not dispel.

  But now, in the cold light of dawn, it seemed all too probable that the proper course of action for an ambitious young trust officer would have included an early return to New York, the dictation of a comprehensive report to the stenographer on evening duty, and punctual attendance at his desk the following morning. Ken groaned inwardly and speculated on the chances of an unobtrusive entrance into his office suggesting his presence there for some hours.

  These hopes were doomed.

  Having paused briefly for a shave at the barbershop in La Guardia, he taxied at a snail’s pace through interminable traffic jams to the East River Drive where a sudden burst of speed left no time to continue his examination of the state of his shirt and tie. The financial district, crowded as always, inserted another fifteen minutes delay into his schedule, and he was eventually deposited at the door of the Sloan at ten minutes after ten. A rapid survey of the foyer promised him a clear field; but at the elevator nemesis pounced. Billings, the sardonic elevator operator, delayed closing the doors for an additional passenger, and importantly a senior trust officer, and Charlie Trinkam, Homburg tipped at a jaunty angle, stepped in to share the solitude of the late morning elevator with Nicolls. And, thought Ken gloomily, Trinkam could be relied on to have noticed his defection of the previous evening. He steeled himself for a heavily ironic inquiry as to his new working hours, and was therefore pleasantly surprised to receive nothing worse than a comradely buffet on the shoulder.

  “Well, well, assuming seniority already, my boy?”

  Ken mumbled something noncommittal and thankfully made his escape on the trust floor. But the incident had left its mark. After all, he had been at the Sloan for three years and was beginning to receive independent accounts. It was absurd to assume the airs of a delinquent office boy just because he chose to spend his evening in Boston rather than in New York. Unhappily Ken could not be expected to realize that Charlie Trinkam, after a night spent proving conclusively that he was a man in the
robust plenitude of his powers to the immense satisfaction of himself and his fiancée, would have observed a mass bacchanalia in the trust department with indulgent tolerance.

  Nicolls, now carrying himself with a certain reserved dignity, abandoned all thoughts of a surreptitious entry. Marching boldly up to his secretary’s desk, he wished her good morning in tones suitable for the formal convening of a summit conference and asked her to bring in her book for dictation as soon as possible.

  He had barely begun his report of the interview with Arthur Schneider when Miss Corsa rang through to say that Mr. Thatcher was free and would like an immediate verbal report on his doings. Rendering thanks that his taxi had not been delayed another ten minutes, Nicolls pulled his thoughts together and made his way down the hall.

  “Good morning, Nicolls,” Thatcher greeted him. “Come in and sit down. I thought we might review our activities. While you’ve been in Boston, I’ve seen Martin and had the unexpected pleasure of meeting Grace. It’s just as well—I was beginning to think of her as a figment of the imagination.”

  “Good morning, sir. What is she like in the flesh? As bad as her letters and phone calls?”

  “Worse,” said Thatcher cheerfully. “In fact, she’s so aggressively ill-mannered that I’m inclined to think she’s very seriously worried about something. Nerves all shot and incapable of noticing anything outside her immediate range of preoccupation.”

  “I’m glad I wasn’t there.”

  “Now I enjoyed the interview enormously. Martin is a clever man. Very forthright about his lack of alibi and his interest in an extra $50,000. Incidentally, he has no alibi from early Friday afternoon right through the night. As far as time goes, he could easily have gone to Buffalo, committed the murder, and returned to New York.”

  “Oh, really,” protested Ken, “you’re not seriously considering Martin as a murderer?”

  “I admit it’s difficult to think of him bashing somebody’s skull in—seems a more subtle type—but I find him very interesting. What did you think of his apartment?”

  “Superb!” said Ken unhesitatingly.

  “Yes, I thought so too. But I meant, what did you think of it financially. If that’s his scale of living generally, he’s spending a great deal more than his income. That decoration job didn’t cost a penny under $30,000.”

  Ken was staggered. Ever since seeing Martin’s apartment, he had been fired with enthusiasm for a little remodeling operation of his own. In his idle moments, he had vaguely contemplated substituting a modern fireplace for his own Victorian monstrosity, putting in a storage wall, complete with a small bar, and enlarging the windows. Hastily scuttling this program, he decided to talk to his landlord about a new paint job and let it go at that. It did not occur to him to question Thatcher’s estimate. If there was one thing that the Senior Vice-President of the Sloan knew about, it was how much things cost.

  “Furthermore,” continued Thatcher, unaware that he had just sealed the fate of a small apartment in Yorktown, “Martin seems to be a persistent reader of stock market newsletters. We might make a few tactful inquiries at the brokerage houses to see if he’s been plunging. I would say that he’s a man with very substantial financial ambitions, and I doubt if he expects to realize them through Schneider Manufacturing Company, even though he would obviously like to own enough stock to counterbalance Arthur’s control. There’s another motive, by the way.”

  Overwhelmed by this picture of a Martin, hard pressed on every side by the need for money, Nicolls asked about Grace.

  “Now there is a woman who makes no bones about her desire for money. Up to her ears in debt, I would say. She’s probably been spending twice the family income all her life and when the merry-go-round crashes to a halt, she blames the world for treating her badly. Totally self-centered and totally convinced that she has a God-given right to everything she wants.”

  “You remember that Robert Schneider’s head was smashed in,” said Ken firmly. His employer was clearly indulging himself with a little romancing and should be brought down to earth. “You can’t see Mrs. Walworth packing a blackjack around in her stocking, can you?”

  Thatcher seemed mildly surprised at this objection. Indeed, Ken thought, Thatcher seemed to regard these sober, middle-class clients of the bank as capable of any crime or violence.

  “Not a blackjack, no,” Thatcher replied judiciously, “but Robert Schneider was killed with a book end from his desk. I can see Grace, in a fit of irritation, swatting him as she might swat a fly. In fact, when you come to think about it, she seems to have a penchant for transmuting her irritation into action. If she had discovered Robert’s existence in Buffalo—and I’m still not convinced that the Schneiders were entirely straightforward with us about their knowledge of Robert’s whereabouts—it would be quite characteristic of her to board the first conveyance and rush up to Buffalo for a personal showdown. She seems to spend her life rushing between New York, Boston, and Washington.”

  “Yes, when you put it like that, it’s not entirely improbable. And she certainly seems much more of a possibility than Martin. Does she have any alibi at all?”

  “I’m not sure. Martin, you see, wanted to discuss a possible sale of stock by Grace to himself and he didn’t want to do it in my presence. He hustled me off in the most charming manner possible before I could introduce the subject of Grace’s alibi. She was worried about Arthur’s cutting her dividends. But from the way she spoke about her police interview—and, by the way, there is a scene I regret having missed—it seems certain that she has a very inconclusive alibi at best. To do her justice, her supreme bad manners probably stem from the fact that she is half-insane with worry over something. It may just be money, but it might be murder!”

  While Ken was absorbing this possibility, the intercom buzzed and Thatcher picked up his phone to listen to Miss Corsa.

  “Ah,” he beamed with satisfaction, “you’d better get on the extension again, Nicolls. It’s Robert Schneider’s wife calling from Batavia.”

  Nicolls wheeled his chair to the side table and wondered how high in the Sloan you had to rise before becoming a speaking partner in these long-distance conversations with Buffalo. Obediently he prepared to listen, as a woman’s voice, high-pitched with tension and imperfectly controlled breathing came to his ears.

  “Mr. Thatcher? This is Kathryn Schneider in Batavia. Robert Schneider was my husband. You wrote me a letter about a trust fund.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Schneider,” said Thatcher soothingly, “I remember perfectly. Your sons will now be distributees of the trust. And I want to express my, ah, sympathy for these difficulties you are having.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said uncertainly. “That is—I wanted to ask you about the money. I mean, exactly how will it be handled?”

  “There will be no distribution until the death of your husband’s aunt. However, she has suffered a stroke and her physicians do not expect her to...”

  “No, no. I understand about that. You told me in your letter. That was the first I knew about this trust. Bob never told me about it. How could I know?” She was now frankly on the brim of full-fledged hysteria.

  “Of course, Mrs. Schneider,” Thatcher broke in soothingly, “just tell me what can I explain to you about the trust.”

  “Something may happen to me. I might not be able to take care of my sons. What if they have no parents? You said they would have to wait until they’re 21.”

  “Not at all. In any event, they will have the interest while they are minors and, if more is necessary for their maintenance and education, the bank will approve an advance on some of the principal.”

  “But will the bank take care of them? I’m suspected of murdering my husband.”

  “The bank will naturally look after your sons’ financial interests, and if you wish more personal supervision, that too can be arranged. I’m sure you’re upsetting yourself needlessly, Mrs. Schneider. We can go into this in detail if, er, any grounds for y
our fears arise. It’s not something you want to rush into.”

  “You don’t understand. I may be arrested any minute. The police think I did it. They’ve been here again. There isn’t anyone else with a motive for murdering Bob.”

  “Now that is not at all the case. There are a good many other suspects,” said Thatcher firmly, and his firmness seemed to have a beneficial influence on Kathryn Schneider, who seemed to take a deep breath and steadied her voice before continuing.

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe there are. Captain Self didn’t actually say there weren’t. But I can’t go on this way. I have to know that something can be arranged for Allen and Donny.”

  “Naturally. And I will prepare some purely tentative arrangements which you can study and approve. Then you will have peace of mind on that score. I daresay that we’ll never need this, but at least you will know that it’s there and that’s the important thing at the moment. You should try to get some rest, Mrs. Schneider, and remember that the police are investigating a good many other people right now. You only see one side of their activities.”

  “Yes,” she said dubiously but more calmly, “and you’ll let me hear from you?”

  “Certainly. I will be in touch with you in the very near future. Don’t worry about your sons anymore.” And with a few more generally soothing remarks, Thatcher rang off.

  “She certainly has the wind up,” remarked Nicolls, cradling his receiver, “and she does have a good motive—the money from the trust for her children and probably part of that business in Buffalo plus whatever spare cash Robert Schneider had. She sounds like the hysterical type too—might do something foolish on the spur of the moment.”

  “Very few women can face sudden widowhood, suspicion of murder and the probability of immediate arrest with any degree of equanimity,” said Thatcher drily.

  “Well, that may be,” said Nicolls stubbornly, “but you can’t get around her motive. Most murders are committed for financial reasons.”