Banking on Death

by Emma Lathen

  “That’s the next thing I want to discuss. Linkworth, of course, will go into this thoroughly and he may have other suggestions. Your sons will require a formal guardian. Do you know if your husband made any arrangements?”

  “Bob? But what arrangements would he make?” she was totally dumbfounded.

  “Well, he was their father and there was no legal custody agreement. There might be a guardianship clause in his will.”

  Kathryn spread her hands in a hopeless gesture. “You don’t understand. Bob didn’t care about the boys. I doubt if he remembered their existence. He hasn’t seen them in seven years. In fact, he has never seen Donny—the younger boy—at all.”

  “He sounds like a strange man,” said Thatcher sympathetically. He was delighted that Kathryn Schneider had been induced to talk about her dead husband voluntarily. It had seemed all too probable that she would not refer to him at all.

  “Yes, nobody really understands how strange. For some reason, I have been able to think of him much more calmly and reasonably since he’s been dead. Before, I was always so resentful and hurt that everything he did seemed directed against me. He was the one who was unreasonable and—yes, inhuman—but underneath I felt that it was I who had been a failure. If I had been a better wife, if I had succeeded in ever understanding him, then I thought all that happened would not have happened and our marriage would have been a success. But now I know, he was the same with everybody, and nobody could have had a normal marriage with him because he just wasn’t normal.”

  “Indeed?” murmured Thatcher encouragingly.

  “Yes,” said Kathryn, her eyes focused on the distance, “he quite literally never thought about anybody else at all. I don’t think they had any existence for him unless they stood in his way or could help him. And then they were just objects to be removed or used. I have wondered recently why he ever married at all.”

  Thatcher, however, realized that she had just given the answer herself. He could imagine a younger Kathryn, a rounder, softer, happier Kathryn, whom Robert Schneider had seen as an object which could contribute to his comfort. And when the object insisted on turning into a human being with the demands and needs of a human being, he had undoubtedly watched the removal of the object from his life with profound relief—if he had not engineered Kathryn’s departure deliberately. No, it seemed all too probable that the Robert Schneider who was being described had never given a second thought to his wife and children once they had taken their blessed departure. Meanwhile Kathryn was continuing, in a reflective, dispassionate tone.

  “It upset me more because I was the only person who was really close to him. But his attitude was the same to everybody. It wasn’t that he was basely inconsiderate as I thought for so long. It was much worse than that. He was supremely indifferent, totally uninterested in anything that was not Robert Schneider.” She gave a little shudder, as she returned to the present and to the realization of Thatcher in her living room. “I’m glad he’s dead,” she concluded with simple sincerity.

  “There are not many people like him. The only thing you can do is forget and return to the world of normalcy.”

  “Yes,” she smiled for the first time. “But you see why there’s no question of his having made any provision for the boys.”

  “It seems very clear. But what provisions did he make in his will?”

  “He didn’t make a will.”

  “What! Are you sure?” Thatcher was aghast.

  “Yes. Captain Self is still looking. He thinks Bob may have had a safety deposit box nobody knew about. There may be a box, but I’m sure there won’t be any will. I tried to talk to Bob about one when Allen was born, but he wouldn’t listen—he just wasn’t interested.”

  “Good heavens! And you haven’t hired a lawyer? You’ll have to see Linkworth as soon as he has an hour free. There will be intestacy proceedings and the sooner you start them the better. You will want to have yourself appointed administratrix. Then we come back to the problem of guardianship. My suggestion is that we have a joint guardianship composed of yourself and the Sloan Guaranty Trust. That will simplify the problem of handling the trust income and any advances of trust principal, if that should be necessary, and we can take charge of their business affairs generally. In the unlikely event that you should be arrested we can step into the breach and arrange for their welfare.”

  “A bank?” Mercifully Kathryn seemed more preoccupied with the impersonal nature of her sons’ guardian than with the prospect of arrest. She was beginning to turn her mind to details. Thatcher’s treatment had been a success.

  “Oh, yes, we do it quite often. If there are any relatives, your sons could stay with them, but a bank officer would be charged with supervising their upbringing.”

  “Yes, there are Fred and Ellen. The boys are with them now. I didn’t want them to be here with an investigation going on into the death of their father.”

  “Very natural. That should present no difficulty then”—Thatcher refrained from suggesting that most relatives are not reluctant to take in two small boys who have an assured income of respectable magnitude—”and it’s an eventuality unlikely to materialize. Tell me, do you have any idea what kind of an estate your husband left?”

  “Yes, from the way Captain Self spoke, I think Bob left nothing except a 10 per cent interest in the company he worked for. And I never knew that he had that. The few times that I spoke with him he made it sound as if he had nothing except his salary and that he was spending every penny of it. I expect he was too. He liked expensive things, and there were always women in his life.” Kathryn’s lips closed firmly as she made the last statement. There was no possibility of information on this point. Discussion would clearly not be welcome and probably fruitless; Kathryn was the sort of woman who would deliberately cultivate ignorance about the sordid details of her husband’s extramarital affairs.

  “Well, the 10 per cent interest will probably present problems. You and your sons will share it—it’s one-third and two-thirds, I believe, but Linkworth will be able to tell you—and you may not want to hold the stock. It was different for your husband who was a working partner in the firm. In your present situation you will probably want to sell out.”

  “How much do you think 10 per cent of that business is worth?”

  “I have no idea. It will depend a good deal on whether the other holders want to buy you out. If you wish, I can have someone from the bank sound them out. In the meantime, our office can make an assessment of the reasonable worth of the company.”

  “Oh, yes, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I’d like to know how much we can count on. It may make a big difference. We might be able to move to a better neighborhood. I don’t like to think of the boys growing up here.”

  “No trouble at all.” Thatcher noted with approval that she was speaking in terms of a joint future for herself and her sons. “We can arrive at some estimate. The actual sale, of course, will have to be delayed until after probate proceedings. But there shouldn’t be too much delay with a surviving wife and children. If you would accept the advice of someone who has had a good deal of experience, Mrs. Schneider, you should turn your mind to practical considerations. As soon as you know the extent of your income, you will probably wish to make some changes in your manner of living. You should start to think about reasonable alternatives so that you can make decisions when the time comes. I am sure that you want to do everything to ensure your sons’ future.”

  “Yes,” said Kathryn, “you’re right. I’m afraid I haven’t been thinking very clearly these past few weeks. You’ve been so helpful. Everything seems much simpler now, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for coming out to see me.”

  She rose with her guest and impulsively stretched out her hand.

  “Nonsense. It’s been a pleasure.” Thatcher took her hand and patted it gently. “I know you’ve been through a trying period. But it’s time to put that behind you and deal with the future. Goodbye, and don�
�t forget to call Linkworth immediately.”

  Thatcher emerged from the house to find a vacant car standing in the street under a light dusting of snow and a few flakes leisurely drifting downward. He looked up and down the street, and his driver came hurriedly out of the drugstore on the corner where he had been keeping watch.

  “Ready for the airport, Mr. Thatcher?” he asked as he started the engine.

  “Yes, Ben, I’m through here.”

  But twenty miles later the snow had thickened to a dense, obliterating curtain, and the car radio in one of its moments of intermittent reception announced that Western New York was preparing to receive four to five inches of snow. Clearing skies were expected that evening. After all, mused Thatcher, three o’clock in the afternoon was an awkward time of the day to arrive back at his office—too late to get anything done, but too early to call it a day. Certainly not worth-while taking off in the middle of a snowstorm when he could wait a few hours and travel in comfort. Far wiser to call the airport and find out what the situation was. He told Ben to take him downtown to the Statler instead. He could always pick up the airport limousine there if there was an unexpected break in the weather.

  It was just as well that he had rearranged his plans because the airport was prompt to tell him that they had rearranged theirs. The one o’clock flight to New York had been grounded by snow in Detroit. Departure from Buffalo was not expected until four o’clock. There would be no seats for New York until that time.

  Thatcher congratulated himself on his foresight as he headed for the dining room with a clear conscience. He could employ some unexpected time in Buffalo very usefully.

  Chapter 17

  Quick Position

  With Thatcher in Buffalo, Charlie Trinkam assumed nominal direction of the Sloan Trust Department; nominal because senior trust officers are jealous of their independence—and prolific of suggestion.

  “I’m afraid I can’t quite go along with you on this,” Everett Gabler was saying with great precision as he handed Trinkam the draft of an agreement with Hoffman Brothers. The agreement was a slight variant of a document that both Trinkam and Gabler drew up hundreds of times each year.

  “Well, Everett, tell me your objections,” Trinkam said with insincere geniality. Everett did. It took forty minutes and centered around a change from “60 per cent of all proceeds” to “not less than 60 per cent and no more than 60 per cent of all proceeds.”

  “Fine, fine,” Charlie said. “We’ll have that typed up.”

  “I’ll want to see a copy of the final draft,” Gabler said quickly.

  It took some effort for Trinkam to keep the smile on his face. “Sure, Everett, sure. We’ll send it around tonight. And thanks a lot.”

  Old lady, he thought as Gabler left.

  Playboy, thought Gabler.

  Trinkam had barely settled himself at his desk when his secretary rang through with a call from Phil Cook in Research.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Trinkam, but we won’t be able to get that Bolling report to you until tomorrow or the day after.”

  “What do you mean, tomorrow?” Charlie expostulated. “I’ve got to have it tonight at the latest!”

  “No can do. The fourth quarter figures won’t be available until tomorrow at the very earliest.”

  “What!”

  “Sorry,” said Cook unrepentantly, and rang off.

  Trinkam glared at the phone. He drummed his fingers for a moment, and then grasped the receiver again. “Hello, put me through to Walter Bowman. Hello, hello! Well, put him on right away. This is Charlie Trinkam. I don’t care if he is in conference, I have to ... oh, hello, Walter? Now listen, what the hell is this about the Bolling report? Now, Walter, I don’t want to..." No, no. Listen, here, Bowman..." Yes, yes. Well, call me back then.”

  It was at this juncture that his secretary entered to announce that a Martin Henderson had called, that he was demanding instant action of some sort from the Sloan, and that he wanted to talk to the man in charge.

  “For Lord’s sake!” Trinkam burst out. “Get Nicolls in here! I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to get any work done around here with everybody chasing after this damn Schneider business. And I want you to ring Walter Bowman back in exactly fifteen minutes. And type up a copy of the Hoffman contract and send it to Gabler.” He took a sharp turn around the office and returned to find Ken in the doorway.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said ferociously. “Well, you’ll be glad to know that just now, when we’re up to our ears in work, you are going to be no use to us at all. You’re going to take care of this damn fool Schneider business.”

  “Something new, Charlie?” Ken asked easily.

  “How should I know?” his harassed superior replied. “Look, Ken, call this Henderson jerk and keep him out of my hair, will you? I’ve got more than enough to worry about as it is. Now get out of here and let me work.”

  Ken was glad to go. And there was something new, as he discovered when he returned Martin’s call.

  Hilda Henderson was dying.

  The news had been disseminated by the Schneider tom-tom with its customary rapidity, and Arthur was in New York for the double purpose of presiding at the deathbed and talking turkey with Thatcher. Ken apologized for Thatcher’s absence, which he discreetly described as a “short business trip,” and found himself being pressed to join the two men for a short talk.

  Left to his own devices he would have returned an unhesitating refusal. Martin’s financial irregularities left a persistently sour taste in his mouth, and he strongly doubted his own ability to maintain the proper degree of camaraderie. Furthermore, the introduction of Arthur into the gathering almost certainly presaged a nasty round of bickering which he had no desire to witness.

  The fact of the matter was that Ken, having placed Jane on the sleeper to Boston last night after four eminently satisfactory days, was inclined to view the delights of bachelor life with some skepticism; at the moment, he asked nothing better than an opportunity to court Arthur’s favor. This meeting promised no such opportunity. However, in view of Thatcher’s insatiable appetite for details concerning the Schneiders, he steeled himself to do his duty.

  An hour later at Waverly Place he found himself, as he had foreseen, an uncomfortable third in a rapidly shaping family quarrel.

  “It’s a pity that Thatcher’s out of town,” Martin said for the second time as he stared morosely into his glass. “As soon as he finds out about Mother’s condition, I’ll insist that he give us some sort of timetable on the distribution of the trust.”

  “Well, well,” Arthur replied, “he’s supposed to be back tomorrow. In the meantime Nicolls has given us a very good idea of how long the formalities of settlement usually take.” He directed an encouraging glance toward Ken, who shifted awkwardly and responded with a smile of suitable gratitude. His relationship with Martin Henderson and Arthur Schneider had undergone a reversal.

  Arthur, having received him in his home and accepted him in the light of an escort for Jane, was now prepared to extend to him a certain good-natured tolerance. Martin, however, was in the throes of a monumental fit of irritation. Impatient with everybody, annoyed with Thatcher, and furious with Arthur, he was barely able to play the civil host to Ken. His temper had not been improved by the discovery that Grace had told Arthur about his offer to purchase his stock.

  “What business has she got running to you? Are you her keeper? If she wants to talk about it, why doesn’t she talk to me?”

  “Nonsense, Martin. It’s entirely natural that Grace should come to me for advice. If she sells her stock, she will have to consider reinvesting the proceeds. She wants to know if she won’t be better off staying with the firm.”

  “You mean she wants to know if there’s any chance of wheedling a raise in dividends out of you. Come off it, Arthur, and stop playing the head of the family. She isn’t going to you for advice; she’s trying to blackmail you by threatening to sell out to me.”

&n
bsp; Arthur’s lips tightened with annoyance. “Don’t be childish!” he snapped. “Every investor wants more income than they are getting. Characterizing that as blackmail is simply indulging your taste for the theatrical.” He cast a look of jaundiced disapproval about Martin’s apartment. “You might just as well say the same thing about your efforts to have your salary raised. And for the record, I will not tolerate any increases, either in salary or dividends, until we’re in a position to afford it.”

  “And when will that be?” asked Martin nastily. “The way things are going, I’d be better off to sell my preferred and clear out altogether.”

  “If that’s a threat, then go ahead. It’s a matter of complete indifference to me what you do. All I ask is that you make up your mind. Good Lord, Martin, try to be reasonable! You’re the one who’s pressing for an immediate distribution and, I might add, hanging over your mother’s deathbed like a ghoul.”

  “Dammit! Arthur, don’t bring that charge against me. You know how things stand between me and Mother. I’m not going to turn sanctimonious just because she’s dying.”

  Martin was now striding around the room in a fine fury, glaring down at Arthur who maintained an icy rigidity in his chair, watching the performance with obvious distaste. In the corner, completely ignored by the contestants, Ken was adding some soda water to his glass and wearily wishing himself elsewhere. Only blood relatives, he thought, could exacerbate each other quite as successfully as these two were doing. Either it was some curious and anti-sympathetic result of kinship or, more simply, the product of years of experience. He found himself wondering what it was like when Grace joined the act, and they had the complete three-ring circus. Probably the effect would be diluted by the inevitable creation of factions. Besides, Grace seemed to have a genius for playing one man off against the other.

  “Nobody’s asking you to be sanctimonious,” snapped Arthur. “Although you might try to observe the common decencies. But, as that doesn’t worry you, there’s no objection to talking about Hilda’s estate. You will inherit all the preferred stock and about $50,000 from her in addition to a $100,000 from the trust. On the one hand you’ve told Grace that you want to buy into the company with it, and now you tell me that you want to sell out. Make up your mind!”