by Emma Lathen
While grateful to be spared a round of wifely bickering, John found the lady’s self-control formidable and impressive.
“Ed didn’t go to jail,” Mrs. Wahl countered nastily, “so don’t give me that nonsense about all executives. And don’t give me that superior look either, Di.”
Mrs. Holzinger politely said, “I wonder if Ed is around anywhere.” Since a young man immediately detached himself from a nearby group to join theirs to moderate things, John rightfully concluded that Mrs. Wahl was a familiar problem at MM, as she kept going, “...not that poor old Buck is to blame. He doesn’t have enough brains, Ed says. It’s that bum Jensen. You notice he isn’t here, Di? For that matter I wonder where Celia is.”
Mrs. Holzinger evinced some irritation at the description of her husband who was in the far corner getting howls of laughter, evidently at one of his stories, but Diane Holzinger knew where the money was, flashed an understanding and sympathetic smile towards Thatcher.
And Mrs. Wahl kept going, “...of course I can guess how she and Glen must be feeling. I don’t know what they’d do about her divorce now--”
“Audrey,” Di said sharply.
“Audrey,” Ed Wahl himself repeated, evidently appearing at the signal of the young man. Without evident embarrassment he greeted John, put a muscular hold on his wife’s shoulders, and moved her away in a practiced manner.
John expelled a sigh as he put down his glass and prepared to move on. Di had other plans as she said, “A problem.”
“I’m sure it is,” John said agreeably, “I think I see...”
He was outmatched as Di went on, “Of course I’m sorry for Audrey, but you can see she’s under stain. And of course there is always a reason for drinking. She was right. Later that night John poured himself a stiff nightcap in his confines at the Telegraph Motel as he dictated a preliminary report to be sent to Charlie and Bowman who got him into this. It was not likely to soothe Walter’s convalescence.
Chapter 4
Merging Traffic
The next morning John abandoned Berman to his fate, another conference with Madsen in the Economic Planning Section, and played truant. Summoning the Plantagenet Sceptre placed at his disposal, he directed the driver to downtown Detroit where he had hurriedly made an appointment at the Detroit Savings and Trust.
Discontentedly he stirred in the stifling luxury car and looked out the window. A clear May day with brilliant sunshine greeted them with streams of traffic pouring in and out of the city like so many mechanized lemmings.
“This is the Ford plant we are passing, Mr. Thatcher,” said Mack, the driver, talking through an unnecessary speaking tube. Presumably he was accustomed to chauffeuring illiterates because a huge Ford sign rose above the facility or Mack just wanted to talk.
Mack tried another tact, “Coffee, sir?”
John denied him the opportunity to show off the carefully camouflaged coffee percolator which was undoubtedly, he thought, standard equipment in this crown jewel of motoring. Mack registered disappointment; as with everyone else at MM, he had a deep affection for cars.
Mack tried again, saying, “Cruises at 120.” Lacking passionate attachment to cars, John didn’t reply. He felt a disapproving wave roll over him. It wasn’t the traffic jam at Michigan at First; nor the acres of unattractive concrete; no he realized it was the corporate world at MM. Detroit Savings at least could be relied upon to produce bankers, not hard driving competitive executives, dynamic managers, team players, whiz kinds, or their wives. Or he added ironically, DOJ people nosing around.
“Here we are,” Mack stated as they arrived at Cadillac Square. John replied succinctly, “I’ll be ready at 2 PM.” Mack touched his cap smartly and retired to lead the magnificent car to some opulent pasture.
As John had anticipated, Detroit Savings proved a relief. Although intimately connected to the car industry, it did not produce executives with booming cheerful voices; it even escaped the brown business suits that are the uniform of the Midwestern business executive. John spent a productive and refreshing morning dealing with knotty problems concerning Treasury funds since Detroit Savings was a Sloan correspondent bank, and lunched pleasantly at the Union Club where the Bank President allowed that MM was the gossip of the car industry. Bets were placed on the future of the returning jailbirds, particularly Ray Jensen. He continued, “Heads will roll,” but paused and went on, “but they always do in the car business.”
Thatcher was revived by his day at the Detroit Savings Bank with a productive morning and his amicable informative lunch with their President. He felt almost equal to his afternoon appoint with the MM Board. As he entered the palatial headquarters he recognized that the architect had achieved an effect reminiscent of Fortune’s more poetic treatments of modern American industry. He thought of the Merrimack Valley textile mills of old, stood for a moment, and compared this stage set with those simple basic headquarters. He had to shake his head at all of it when a familiar figure emerged from behind an ornamental bush hailing him warmly.
“John Thatcher, well isn’t this great. I’ve been hoping we’d run into each other. I heard you were here and I wanted to catch up with you to talk about old times. These Detroit people set a hard pace, a big change from the Sloan. MM frankly gives me more scope, “as he went on and on.
Lincoln Hauser, former Sloan PR director, was now the MM PR director as it turned out. “My first big job was to handle the price fixing scandal. A big challenge we handled well, if I do say. Here you grab the ball and carry it down the field--”
John interrupted, “I didn’t know you were an athlete?” As at the Sloan, Hauser, a weedy figure with black rimmed glasses, was humorless as he always had been and stayed in full flight. John could only remember how happy he was when the Sloan finally outplaced Hauser. Listening to him now was a small problem compared to the almost daily fallout from his tone-deaf activities at the Sloan.
Hauser was continuing, “Tomorrow the Sheik himself will arrive for a presentation worth millions in free PR.” He paused and said, “It’s been good to see you, Thatcher, and talk about the quiet old days at the Sloan. But I have to be ready when the Super Plantagenet arrives. Ah, there it is. I’ll have to hurry off,” and his actions suited his words.
John had cherished reprehensible hopes that this car would prove too unwieldy for movement or, at a minimum, he wouldn’t have to see it again. Rousing himself he proceeded through the virtually invisible glass doors to the lobby. He was at the elevator when he heard his name called.
“John.” It was Arnie. He was surrounded by studious people with pads, charts, and other meeting paraphernalia. “Wait a minute so I can join you.”
John waited, being obliging. Idly he glanced through the panes of glass framing the lobby. Across the pool in the distance he could see a workman in overalls alighting from the Super Plantagenet, which he had positioned accurately along the gleaming expanse of water. Hauser, rounding the building at a trot, beckoned the driver. But the driver was no doubt experienced with Hauser and PR so hurried off in the opposite direction, abandoning the mechanical wonder to the PR man who was accompanied by camera and PR people converging toward the patio.
A low moan emanated from Arnie when he reached John’s side, I can only take so much of this,” he said lugubriously.
“A full morning?” John inquired with amusement.
“Madsen marooned me with that bunch. They even brought their papers and charts to lunch and wouldn’t stop.”
John braced himself for the inevitable bad news, “Well then, the worst is over for you as the day is almost over. My sufferings are still before me. Which reminds me, hadn’t we better get up the Board room?”
“No. Madsen said he would pick us up here in 10 minutes,” as Arnie moved to sit on a nearby couch of immense luxury. Arnie sat comfortably and unwrapped a cigar. John recognized the symptoms. A fatalistic melancholia had settled over his companion in which escape from MM seemed impossible to him unless exit route
s were close at hand. John sat down in a consoling gesture.
Krebbel emerged from the interior of the building, paused at the reception desk, and found his 2 guests sitting side by side pensively. A more imaginative person might have inserted a light comment; but Krebbel was being Krebbel and merely gave instructions to the receptionist about his upcoming chauffeured trip.
“Tell them to give me a 2nd shift driver since he will have to take me home after the dinner. Also, I’ll need that car to bring me back here tomorrow morning.” Only then did he apologize to his 2 captive guests for the business appointment that would keep him from the Board meeting. “I’ll see you again tonight at the Chamber of Commerce Dinner.”
Enviously Arnie watched Krebbel’s departure out the exit. A woman appeared who Krebbel held the door for; she exchanged a few words with him before Arnie cheered up and called out to her, “Celia, over here. John, you haven’t met Celia.”
John admitted that was so. He did not add he had heard about her from the inebriated Mrs. Wahl. Arnie introduced her and her charming smile did not completely conceal traces of worry and strain. Tiny blue veins shadowed her pale clear skin at the temples, and dark smudges lay beneath her wide set hazel eyes. But, and it was an important but, there was a genuine sparkle in her eye and a warm curve to her generous mouth.
“Celia went to Cornell with my wife,” Arnie explained. After a moment’s silence he added reflectively, “Different sororities of course.”
Mrs. Jensen laughed affectionately. “Arnie, you’re still impossible but such a relief to have you here. I only wish Esther could have come too. You don’t know what it has been like, and, anyway, I haven’t seen her in ages with you being in New York and us out here.”
“You ought to come back with me now. Esther would be surprised and tickled pink!” John had never seen Arnie so energized and pleasantly playful. It was a new perspective and one John enjoyed.
“Oh, Arnie, you know I’d love to, but can’t now,” as her lips quivered slightly. “Maybe later in the summer.”
To John the conversation was becoming undesirably emotional. Apparently Celia agreed with him because almost immediately she cast about for a calming topic. “Oh, I see they got the car here after all.”
“What car, Cele?”
“The Super Planty,” as she pointed toward the pool. “Everyone at Plantagenet is behaving like a madman.”
“Oh,” Arnie said alertly. “Been over there?”
“Yes” and the gaiety faded from her voice. “I’ve been looking for Ray. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him since he got back last Monday and this situation is maddening for all of us.” She flushed slightly. “We closed down the house before the trial and I stayed with my sister. When I saw Krebbel’s Drake pulling into the parking lot I thought I had finally caught up to Ray. But up in Ray’s office Wahl said no. Evidently Frank has been looking for him too. And Frank just told me Ray isn’t here now either. Nobody seems to know where he is.”
“Playing hard to get,” Arnie said in a lighter tone.
The interruption recalled Celia to her anecdote. “While Ed and I were talking the door flew open and one of the engineers roared that the Super Planty was being stolen.”
“$30,000 worth of car,” which instantly brought Arnie back to his regular sobersides posture.
Celia laughed, “I thought Ed was going to explode. Then we all went racing down to the garage to see the tail lights disappearing out the door.”
Arnie interjected, “I’ve always had my doubts about MM management.”
Celia ignored him and continued, “Ed went wild. No one could stop him as he went pounding after it, shaking his fist. I was the only one who could laugh because everyone else worked for Ed.”
An unhealthy state of affairs, John thought, when a group of sane adults remain respectfully grave when an out of shape middle aged bulky man tries to chase down a 500 horse power vehicle. Mrs. Jensen continued that the PR coup was at fault since they were using the car but never had told Ed or his staff.
John said from experience, “Hauser and his people undoubtedly have that effect. At the Sloan we didn’t give him quite the same scope but I always thought he would make a first rate horse thief.”
Arnie stayed Arnie through this mild amusing remark and continued being critical about executives chasing after cars shouting and waving their fists. Since he was going strong, he also said he wasn’t crazy about the upcoming presentation to the Sheik either. Feeling relieved Arnie got back to business, “John we better get upstairs for the Board meeting since Madsen is late.”
They made their farewells to Celia with Arnie adding a fraternal kiss, and then proceeded toward the elevator. Just as Celia crossed the lobby, Madsen appeared. He stopped short for a moment, ignoring both Berman and Thatcher, and ran up to intercept Celia. Whatever he said was inaudible but Madsen’s intensity was reflected in how he put his hand on her arm. Arnie was releasing one of his mournful signs of comment when there was another interruption.
A breathless young man hurled himself into the lobbying saying, “Mr. Madsen, have you seen the driver?”
Reluctantly Madsen looked up and said, “What driver?”
“The one who drove the Super Planty here. I was in the car with him but he’s taken off,” as he wrenched off his black rimmed glasses to lend force to his words. John recognized him as Winters, one of Hauser’s PR henchmen. The PR man continued, “We want to photo someone in overalls near the car.”
Madsen replied savagely, keeping his proprietary hand on Celia, “Haven’t seen him, why don’t you just put on some overalls yourself?”
The young man paled at the suggestion and attack while a passing secretary kindly told him she thought she had seen the man go around the far side of the building. The young man darted off in pursuit. After a brief but impassioned remark of some kind, Celia resolutely followed him. For a moment Madsen was frozen in place. Then he turned to join Arnie and John. Arnie made no effort to dispel the awkwardness of the episode. “Where is Ray, Glen?” he asked bluntly.
“Don’t know,” Madsen replied and with visible effort shifted to make a commonplace remark about the Super Plantagenet. John felt duty bound to make some effort to be helpful though under the circumstances found it was difficult to hit on anything that would be, as he said, “You MM people certainly emphasize limousines.”
Automatically Madsen informed him that MM policy was to publicize Plantagenets for prestige purposes while the Lancasters and Buccaneers buttered the company’s bread. Accordingly top executives drove Plantys on all company business, but drove other MM cars at other times. He went on to say that even the Krebbel was often seen driving his modest Drake.
As Madsen spoke John wondered about how much Arnie knew about Madsen and Mrs. Jensen. On the other hand how much more was there to know? Their encounter just witnessed had been eloquent. When they reached the boardroom, Chairman French revealed the qualities that made him a leading American executive, “I can see we’re all looking forward to this meeting.” So far as John could tell this was said with no sense of irony and French was entirely sincere in his comment.
The interminable afternoon featured French, a silent bleak looking Madsen, and assorted members of the MM Board on one side of a long table pitted against Arnie and John on the other. “Now,” Arnie stated, smoking furiously to give vent to his frustrations, “about your depreciation system.” He elicited a detailed financial statement and several speeches before the principals adjourned for the day.
“You won’t forget the Chamber dinner tonight, will you?” Madsen said as they were leaving. He had again assumed the role of the conscientious host. Conscientious to a fault, John thought. With unflattering sincerity John replied there was no need for MM or Madsen personally to exert themselves any further on his behalf.
“You’ll be interested. And we are stopping in for drinks at the Wahls.” John protested no further. It was hard to imagine a worse set of drinks than with the
formerly inebriated hostile Mrs. Wahl but he realized Arnie and he were helpless in the grip of the powerful forces that mold industrial hospitality. By 8:30 PM they had been taken downtown to the dinner, sharing a table with Madsen, Buck, and Wahl, whose wife had blessedly been confined to tomato juice at the earlier drinks event at their house. At the head table Krebbel was waxing on with an unimaginative, if optimistic, assessment of the MM situation.
John was lost in thought as he noticed Wahl lean over and ask Buck something. “No,” replied the extrovert in round full bodied ones. “No I haven’t been able to track Ray down, Ed, but I can tell you one thing--” as Wahl cut him off.
“Never mind, never mind,” interjected Wahl, but Buck continued cheerfully, “...Ray will turn up tomorrow when all the Super Planty pictures are taken, guess who will turn up trying to hog all the PR, throw his weight around, and try to grab all the credit, Ed? Ray Jensen, that’s who.”
“Shut up Buck,” Madsen fiercely interjected as he sounded taut as their table became the object of considerable curiosity. Wahl’s face reddened unattractively but Buck who had been drinking freely earlier was not to be deterred.
“Yes, our friend Ray,” he said. “The man who always stands up for his friends. The man who covers up for them when they’re in trouble, the man who came right back to MM to take over!”
At the head table Krebbel was coming ponderously to a conclusion, “On the basis of past performance, we see room for nothing but confidence in MM’s future. John could not find it in his heart to even remotely agree with him.
Chapter 5
Body Work
By Friday morning Arnie and John were determined to wind up their conferences with MM and escape to New York. This would entail a hard day but Arnie optimistically said it would be well worth it. These plans were neatly torpedoed. As soon as they arrived at the Executive Building they realized not much work would be done. MM was triumphantly en fete. Japanese lanterns were bobbing in trees, and a temporary podium decorated with a bunting had been erected in the midst of 100s of folding chairs. From somewhere in cyberspace a menacing crackle resolved itself into a stentorian intoning of “Testing, 1, 2, 3.”