by Emma Lathen
Narrowly John watched Madsen over the rim of his glass. The heavy satisfaction in Georgeson’s voice would have goaded a man more mercurial than Madsen. But Madsen did not rise to the bait.
“Yes. I had a little fight with Ray last week.”
“Not so little. You told him you’ll kill him if he came back. Told him to leave Celia alone--”
“Keep her out of this,” Madsen interrupted him before he could control himself. He took a drink, then went on, “Anyway, Ray and I tangled last Tuesday.”
Georgeson smiled once again. “I have witnesses who say it was Wednesday, Mr. Madsen. That makes you the last person to see Jensen alive, doesn’t it?” Madsen’s face went white. Was it with shock, John asked himself. “It was Tuesday,” Madsen said. “I know who your witnesses are. You mean the McKennas across the street. Well, they’re mistaken. They’re old and get confused about things. Ask the Singers next door. They’ll tell you it was Tuesday night.”
Georgeson grunted a little as he shifted his ground, “Good friends of yours, the Singers. Apart from your good friends can you prove it was Tuesday?”
“Can you prove it was Wednesday?” Madsen countered.
“That’s what my witnesses say. Now they claim you were fighting about Jensen’s wife...”
Again John saw Madsen’s mobile ugly face darken with involuntary anger. Remorselessly Georgeson continued, trying to make Jensen’s murder the end of the story of a man after another man’s wife. But if Madsen’s short replies did nothing to disabuse him, Madsen scored nevertheless. However damaging this disclosure of a fight was, it was not as damaging it might have been. A confrontation on Tuesday night was bad enough, but Jensen had been seen alive at Plantagenet on Wednesday.
And while the unknown McKennas claimed the fight was on Wednesday they were evidently old and liable to error, which Georgeson seemed to know as he once again hesitated. This hesitation, John could see, was the only thing keeping Madsen from immediate arrest. Georgeson put it in so many words.
“Well, that’s that for now. We’re going to check this out. We are going to check on you and Jensen’s wife until we are blue. And I just hope you’ve been telling us the truth, for your sake.” Suspicion and dislike shone from his small eyes. Then he was gone with his patrolman, leaving the slumped Madsen staring blindly after him.
“It really was Tuesday,” he said at last. “Although I can see how you might have your doubts.”
John was astringent. “It is to be hoped that someone beside those Singers can testify to that effect.”
“People get mixed up,” Madsen said vaguely. “And it was over a week ago.”
“Now listen, Madsen.”
“Oh I could have killed Ray. If ever I hated anyone, I hated him. Whoever did it was a real benefactor. Ray was a sadist. He liked to make Celia suffer. For her sake I put up with it. But Ray pushed me a little too far.”
Thatcher had experience in dealing with people in shock. “Madsen, take my advice. Forget the reasons you wanted to kill Jensen. That’s Georgeson’s job. Let him do it. What you should do is spend some time thinking of the many reasons you couldn’t have killed him.”
Thatcher’s vehemence startled Madsen out of his reverie and into protest. “But I didn’t do it.”
“In a real sense,” John told him sternly, “that is quite irrelevant.”
Chapter 12
Rotary Ahead
There is a certain finality about funerals, even those of murder victims. 6 feet of sod had succeeded where 6 months of prison had failed. Raymond Jensen was at last neutralized as a vital factor in MM affairs. For a good many people this fact prompted a brief stock taking.
In the secluded comfort of the Detroit Club, Lionel French and Stuart Eberhart, Chairman and President emeritus, unfurled after lunch cigars and resumed their conversation about MM. “Yes,” French said, “I think we can look forward to some peace and quiet at last.”
Eberhart snorted. “You’re easily satisfied. What if Ray implicated me in writing? It would have been just like him to keep some dynamite up his sleeve.”
“Nonsense. In the last 6 months, the DOJ has been over Jensen’s papers with a fine tooth comb. The only danger was what he might tell them. And that could have been worrisome. He was making pretty wild threats the other day, you know.”
“Vindictive, that’s what Ray was. No gratitude at all. I gave him his start. And yet the minute he got out of jail he made a dead set for me.”
“It wasn’t personal Stu. He was just looking for some leverage and where better to start than with the man who gave him his start, you?”
“That’s one name for blackmail, I’d say. You seem to forget it could have landed me in jail,” Eberhart noted.
“Oh I agree. I agree. But you have to admit that Jensen ate, drank, and slept MM. That’s why you picked him. And that’s why he went crazy,” French noted justly. And sadly he continued, “Ray would have been great in the front office.”
“He was unbalanced,” Eberhart proclaimed.
“Perhaps that’s what it takes. In any event we don’t have a thing to worry about now. Riley must realize he won’t get any more evidence now that Ray is gone. You’ll see. Things will start to die down in a week or two.”
Eberhart added that it was high time as the 2 went on to debate the relative merits of some potential acquisitions. French was inclined towards a palomino stud farm in the Upper Peninsula while the less dashing Eberhart still favored his orange groves in Florida. As they prepared to leave, they were respectfully approached by 2 local ad men with condolences for the goings on at MM and the death of its most publicized VP.
French rose to the occasion as he usually did so effectively, “A loss. A great loss indeed,” as he shook his handsome head gravely.
Dead, Jensen was acknowledged to be a loss. Many an observer would have been tempted to make the same assessment of Orin Dunn, on the hoof as it were. Lying limp on a hammock overlooking his expensive patio he stared dully at the maid announcing Mrs. Holzinger on the phone. “Can’t they leave me alone anywhere,” he whined.
The maid wisely did not respond, having seen a lot of this.
“Oh, all right. Plug the phone in out here.”
Exuding displeasure the maid retreated in search of the phone. She had never been enthusiastic about the installation of jack outlets all over the Dunn property. Now that her connection with the family was about to be terminated, she saw no need to conceal her feelings on that subject or any other for that matter.
Dunn’s interview with Krebbel had ended his MM association. He was preparing to relocate in the West. It was not a prospect to cheer. He shifted his weight restlessly. Di would be difficult; there was no point in kidding himself about that. But then everyone was being difficult. His resignation yesterday had been accompanied by all the awkwardness inherent in such terminations. Wahl had wished Orin well with offensive unconcern. Krebbel, although accepting Orin’s withdrawal with the dexterity of a man performing a familiar task, had not bothered to conceal his surprise that Orin would consider the formality necessary. His old Plantagenet cronies over whom he had been lording it over in high style just a year ago were visibly skeptical about his sudden zeal for the aircraft business in Southern California.
After this morning his discomforts had assumed a domestic form. Taking his family to the club swimming pool, secure in the knowledge no car executive would be there, he had been forced to watch his wife being brave. “Yes, Orin and I are leaving. We think it is the best thing we can do for the company and ourselves.”
Simple justice should have caused him to honor her performance. Not every spouse can be noble and loyal in a swimming pool or elsewhere for that matter. But he was in no mood for simple justice. And now in his home Di was hounding him, on the site of his barbeque triumphs to be no more. He had always prided himself on his specially created steak sauce that others had liked too. As some would have admitted ironically, that was the thing they liked best abou
t him and would probably remember him for when safely gone as Ray was in a more final way.
The maid handed him the receiver, “Hello Di,” he began cautiously. “Yes that’s right. I’ve taken a job in Santa Barbara,” as he paused to listen to her commentary before going on, “I don’t know why it should come as such a surprise to you.”
The phone crackled ominously and at some length. “No, of course it isn’t what you planned. Do you think it is what I’d planned? Be reasonable Di. Do you think I’d do this if I had any other choice,” and he listened as she continued before saying, “For heaven’s sake be careful what you say. You don’t know who might be listening in.”
The phone said he had the brains of a peahen. Orin retorted, “Whose fault is this anyway? You and your smart ideas about the DOJ. I’ve had a bellyful,” as she interrupted with more pointed commentary, before he continued. “Of course I mean you handled things wrong. I never should have gotten mixed up in this. The trouble is that I let you talk me into--,” as she interrupted him again, before he continued, “You can’t talk to me that way, you and that half-baked husband of yours. Why should I pull your chestnuts out of the fire now? Di? Di?” as she evidently had hung up on him.
At Grosse Pointe Farms Di cradled her pink Princess phone, looked reflectively at the piecrust table set against rose shot silk draperies, and came to a decision. Without haste she descended the carpeted staircase leading to their lower floor and sought out her husband in his elaborate workshop. She announced to him without any preliminaries, “Buck, Orin is cutting his losses and running out on us.”
Buck looked up from his lathe, having absorbed the news, and concluded, “Good riddance.”
Di tapped her foot impatiently. “Don’t act that way,” she urged. “And can you shut off that thing.”
Obediently he did. He examined Di thoughtfully. Her fingers were clenched and she was breathing rapidly, “What’s the matter Di?”
She was silent for a moment. “It’s Dunn. I may have told him too much.”
“Always said he was a jerk. No telling what he might do.” This was a charitable summary as Di knew full well. What Buck had really implied was she was a fool to get mixed up with the unreliable Dunn. He continued thoughtfully, “But I wouldn’t worry about his talking. Got his own skin to save. Even if he is leaving no company likes an executive who blabs, whether about them or anyone else.”
His wife relaxed slightly. “You think he’ll keep quite because he’s got enough of his own to hide?”
“Oh yes,” as his eyes narrowed slightly in speculation. “Say Di, has it ever occurred to you that Dunn may have been the tipster?”
“What?” she said, and was markedly shaken by the suggestion. “But he went to jail too.”
“It would be just like him to mess that up too. He wanted Ray’s job. And the real evidence was against Ray. If Ray hadn’t talked, nobody could have touched Dunn.”
“That’s absurd, Buck,” she said sharply.
Buck stuck to his point. “I don’t think so. Sometimes you can’t stay on top of these things. It would explain why he was so wild at Jensen. Naturally, if Orin had started the whole thing, he didn’t expect it to backfire on him.”
“Nonsense. Whoever informed on Jensen must have taken good care to see that it didn’t backfire.” Something in Di’s voice made Buck look up quickly. Di refused to meet his eye.
Other people beside Buck were inclined to think that the entire conspiracy investigation might have boomeranged on the informant.
“You know, Celia, sometimes I can’t help wondering if Ray started the whole thing off.” Madsen was seated on the Louise Burns’ sofa, very much against her wishes .
“It is madness, Celia. You know how people are talking. Having Glen here will just give them more to talk about.”
“I know and I no longer care,” proclaimed Celia recklessly. Her face was drawn but her eyes shown in open rebellion. “I’m past thinking about what people will say. I’ve got to see Glen someplace where we can talk. I can’t bear to think of him going through all of this by himself.”
“People are talking about more than your private affairs,” said Louise, with the candor and experience of a minister’s wife. “They’re saying Glen murdered Ray because of you. Are you sure you won’t be doing him more harm than good by his being here?”
Celia’s line was that things couldn’t possibly be worse and the police had all the evidence they needed about her feelings about him and his about her. Together they had overcome her sister’s objections and he had been received into her house.
He was not looking well upon his arrival but looked better after 2 hours with Celia. Madsen, if not entirely cheerful at this point, could turn his mind to some of the problems exercising MM staff. Celia was not noticeably shocked at the suggestion that her late husband might have been involved in double dealings. But she had a higher regard for his efficiency than Buck had of Dunn, as she said, “Glen, if he’d have arranged the whole thing he would have managed to get himself off.”
“Perhaps he unleashed something he could no longer control. Until he was on the stand, he could have thought he was going to get away with it. You remember how stunned he was when they started bringing out those photostats of his handwriting. He never dreamed that they had so much on him. Do you think...”
As he paused she asked, “What is it Glen?”
He chose his words carefully. “It is hard to be detached. That was a hard time for Ray. You’d left him and of course he wasn’t entirely normal anyway. But I could swear he had something else on his mind when the trial started. Maybe he’d gotten tired of waiting for Eberhart’s job. He knew he was going to get it eventually, but he didn’t seem to want to wait 10 years.”
“You mean that maybe Ray aimed the whole thing at Eberhart?” Celia asked.
“Sure. Remember if Ray had opened up the government would have had the goods on Eberhart. What if that was what Ray originally planned? But then, when he realized that he was caught in his own trap, he shifted tactics and decided to sit tight, hoping to come out of jail with something to sell. That would explain his behavior after he got out.”
“You don’t need any explanation for that. That’s just the way he was,” she concluded sadly.
In a separate conversation elsewhere, Riley was saying, “No, you can take it from me Ray was not the man who tipped.”
He was instructing a freshly arrived subordinate in the intricacies of the great MM case, now of sufficient dimensions in the mind of his department to justify increased personnel on the case.
“Well who did then?” asked the straightforward youth.
“We don’t know. It came anonymously. You’ll learn that most good tips do. This isn’t like customs’ cases where people tip for a bounty. Sometimes it is a competitor, sometimes an insider. This time it was an insider, which we know and so does the rest of the industry. Naturally it doesn’t lead to very good feelings.”
“I’ll bet it doesn’t.”
“But the thing to keep in mind is that the tip was aimed at getting both the Plantagenet and Buccaneer divisions into trouble. If Jensen had been behind it, you can be sure he would have kept the data away from his division where he was the star. Furthermore, we never would have gotten his own notes on the March 15th meeting. It is a shame he was murdered.”
The youth nodded. In his book it was a shame anyone got murdered. But Riley was proceeding along more selective lines, he learned. “He would have talked, you know. In the end public pressure would have kept MM from giving him what he wanted, whether it was a job, money, or both. Then he would have come to us for sheer spite. It is really a shame. A lot of information went down the drain with Ray Jensen’s murder.”
“I suppose they are relieved at MM. They must realize that as much as we do.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t be surprised if that isn’t why they murdered him,” Riley concluded.
Ed Wahl’s new found job security as head of MM�
�s prestige division was not making him any easier to live with. Always brusque in manner, these days he was nervous and short tempered as well. Even Susan Price, prepared as usually to stretch a point in favor of MM executives, had to remind herself forcibly that, whatever his faults in dealing with junior executives, he was invariably considerate of his secretary.
She watched the departure of a production manager, badly deflated from a rough going over by Wahl and was relieved to have her boss raise a subject which could not fail to lighten his mood.
“You’ve heard that Dunn is leaving MM,” he said to her as she closed her dictation book. Susan agreed she had.
“Well, we will have to organize some sort of party for him. The usual thing. You’ll see to it won’t you?”
She made a note, “Just the division people?”
He paused and then said, “Make it the front office too. I suppose we will have to act as if he was an assistant division manager.”
Susan nodded. Her question had some point. The protocol at MM for departing executives was well defined; assistant division managers got the front office; those below them did not. “And Miss Price,” he added, “don’t forget to put yourself on the invitation list.”
Yes, she thought. There was no question Wahl meant well. Not that he could measure up to Mr. Krebbel she thought. Catch him sending her a cake! But an invitation to the Dunn party was not to be sneezed at. As Wahl said good night to her, striding off hat in hand towards the elevator, she speculated about asking Fabian Riley to be her escort. Normally such an invitation carried unrestricted rights in the matters of a companion. But Susan knew not this time. A DOJ representative would not be a welcome addition to the party, in fact, she thought, the DOJ was the reason for the party in the first place.
Wahl was also absorbed in speculation as he stopped by the Club for his wife, and said, “If we can ride this out for the next couple of weeks, we’ll be over the hump. That is if those boys wise up enough to let things cool off.”