by Deaver Brown
The young woman nearest them abandoned her typewriter to look up inquiringly.
“Is Mr. Quinlan available?” Henry began. He discovered that informality reigned at Northern Land Development as insistently as at Fiord Haven.
“Phil!” the young woman called to a neighbor. “Is Eddie back from the Sheraton yet?”
Phil cupped a hand over the phone. “Yeah,” he said.
“Got back while you were getting coffee. Yes indeed, Mrs. Bell. No, of course there is absolutely no obligation. We just want you and Mr. Bell to see . . .”
The young woman pointed to the rear of the room. “That’s Eddie’s door,” she informed them before returning to her work.
Fortunately, before Thatcher and Henry could debate the propriety of marching in unannounced and possibly unwelcome, the door opened. Eddie Quinlan himself appeared.
“Say, Frank, has anybody double-checked with the hotel about honoring the parking tickets? We don’t want to have anybody charged for parking tonight the way they were last August—”
“I just fixed that up, Eddie,” said a voice from behind Thatcher and Henry.
Ralph Valenti had entered on their heels. He pumped hands, then led the way.
“Be with you in a minute,” said Quinlan, who was bending over the desk and studying a muchpenciled chart. “Better arrange to have another table available if we should need it, Max.”
Valenti hung his coat on a rack and gestured his guests into the inner office. It was a spartan affair of table-desks, a sofa, a large round conference table, and colorful FIORD HAVEN posters on the walls. A wastebasket near them bristled with rolls of blueprints.
“Eddie,” Valenti said as Quinlan joined them, “before I forget. The Davidsons are coming tonight.”
Quinlan grinned. “We’re going to end up feeding those kids forever. Maybe she hasn’t learned how to cook yet.”
Valenti, settling himself across from their guests, was serious. “Remember, we did decide to invite repeaters to our big night at the Prudential Center. Of course, only if they’re really good prospects for Fiord Haven . . .”
“Okay, okay,” said Quinlan.
By now, both Henry and Thatcher realized that their descent had coincided with one of Fiord Haven’s nonstop promotional efforts. A question from Henry gave them the dimensions; two hundred prospects—this time invited on the basis of safe-deposit boxes in selected Boston banks, Eddie having a nephew in the commissioner’s office—were to be Fiord Haven’s guests at dinner tonight, in the Sheraton Hotel at the Prudential Center.
“. . . and after dinner,” Valenti finished, “we’re showing a new film we’ve just got. Eddie, did you get Sid to run it for you?”
Eddie nodded. “Great,” he said.
Valenti agreed. “Sid’s got a lot of talent.”
Neither Quinlan nor Valenti was curious about their visitors, and Thatcher knew why. This whirlwind of details to be checked, of arrangements to be made and, above all, of people to be contacted, was no last-minute push. It was the way business was regularly done at Northern Land Development. Tomorrow would see no letdown; the phones would still be ringing, as the one on Quinlan’s desk was ringing now. The young men outside would be going over other lists, making other calls. What with dinners and films, with weekends and ads, time cost more at Fiord Haven than at most places.
This was a pace John Thatcher had seen in other operations. He was not hidebound enough to think that the Sloan’s was the only way to do business. So, he did not conclude, as many of his Wall Street colleagues would have, that this was commercially suspect. Hard sells and strong pitches have earned a bad name, but Thatcher could list many respectable and profitable firms—from encyclopedia publishers to mutual funds—that relied on them.
It was, however, a way of doing business that left Quinlan and Valenti with no time and no inclination to ask themselves why Thatcher and Morland were intruding themselves on this assembly line. They had too many other claims on their attention.
“Feldman,” Quinlan reported as he left the phone. “The Rentners have just signed.”
“Good!” cried Valenti.
Thatcher would have liked to have known how many of Fiord Haven’s lots were sold. But, he thought, he was more likely to get a realistic answer from one of Charlie Trinkam’s contacts than from either of these frenetic promoters.
Henry felt no qualms. “Did you sell any lots to the crowd at Fiord Haven the weekend they found Lester’s body?”
“Not so far,” said Quinlan with that sardonic smile. “There were a lot of second thoughts.”
Valenti did not enjoy gallows humor. “The Davidson couple,” he said, almost vehement, “they’re really interested.”
The partners were strongly contrasted, Thatcher thought, as Henry finally launched into an intricate explanation of their interest in James Joel Finley. Quinlan was the man equipped by nature to sell. He had a taut air that was not, Thatcher would guess, the result of business pressures. Fiord Haven kept him busy, on the phone, planning, scheming, persuading—but Thatcher’s impression was that he would be doing just that anyway.
Valenti was something else again. Unlike Quinlan, he did not evince nervous exhilaration. He was tired and, when tired, he became depressed behind his mask of easy cheer. It cost him an effort to keep his attention concentrated on the task of selling Fiord Haven. He did it because success would make him rich. And, Thatcher suspected, he might become one of the many rich men who discover they have sacrificed too much for wealth.
“. . . discussion between Lester and Finley,” Henry was saying with elaborate nonchalance. “Something about the roof . . .”
A troubled look between Quinlan and Valenti indicated that he had touched a sensitive spot.
Speaking with clipped care, Quinlan said, “I’m not sure that the police want us to talk about that, Mr. Morland.”
Henry dismissed this. “The police told me all about it,” he said, conveniently forgetting it had been Alec Prohack, not the police. But, since it was Prohack who had probably informed the police, it no doubt all came to the same thing in Henry’s mind. And Thatcher was not sure that he was far wrong at that.
Quinlan was still frowning in thought. Valenti, however, was not a man to keep his own counsel. He made an indeterminate, unhappy sound. Thatcher thought that a nudge would do it.
“Tell me, have they resumed work on your lodge yet?” he asked.
Valenti looked even unhappier and, for once, there was no smile on Quinlan’s face as he replied, “You know just as much as we do.”
Having let down his guard, he continued, “I don’t know what the hell it means. First, Finley’s suddenly got to make some changes, so all the work gets held up. Then somebody tells this story about Lester chewing him out because of the roof.”
“What is the matter with the roof?” Henry interrupted to ask.
“Finley wanted to make some design changes,” Valenti answered vaguely.
Eddie Quinlan was not vague. “Nothing’s the matter with it,” he said with a snap. “We sent a construction engineer up to Fiord Haven this morning to make sure.”
A nasty implication, Thatcher thought. Ralph Valenti still intended to defend Fiord Haven and everyone associated with it.
“The police are crazy,” he said. “James Joel Finley is a world-famous architect. He couldn’t—”
Eddie Quinlan’s defensive instincts were more finely-honed. “James Joel Finley isn’t Fiord Haven. And Fiord Haven is guaranteeing that everything built up there is first-class.”
Unspoken was his corollary: If James Joel Finley had anything to do with Stephen Lester’s murder, that was his problem, not Fiord Haven’s.
Henry did not leave things hanging. “How much would you be hurt if Finley is implicated?”
This bluntness made poor Valenti choke. Quinlan only smiled and said, “It would hurt. We’ve featured James Joel Finley in all our promotion. And hell—this has got to be some mix-up. To show you what
we think—well, Finley’s coming to the dinner tonight. But, in the last analysis, if worst comes to worst—well, Fiord Haven isn’t selling because of any architect.”
This cool optimism depressed Valenti still further.
He struggled to remain as detached as Quinlan. “Do you know if the police seriously suspect Finley?” he asked Henry.
Henry was not quick enough off the mark.
Once again, Quinlan’s guard slipped. “Ralph,” he said, “forget about what the police are doing. They can take care of their business, and we should concentrate on ours—which is Fiord Haven.”
“I know, I know,” Valenti said, troubled. “But I can’t help worrying.”
“I know it’s not easy,” Quinlan said. “Hell, I’m just as bad as you are. This afternoon, when we’ve got a million things to do, I went out of my way to try to help Mrs. Lester.” He glanced at Thatcher and Morland, including them in his comment. “And it was a mistake. A waste of time. So I’ve learned my lesson. None of this is our business. The police will take care of it—and we’ll go on selling Fiord Haven.”
Before they could see if Valenti had been convinced, the phone rang again. A young woman opened the door and demanded an instant decision about radio spots on WHDH.
“You see what I mean?” Quinlan said.
The selling effort of Fiord Haven had a momentum of its own. Thatcher and Henry withdrew.
Kenmore Square was a riot of snarled traffic and bad-tempered jaywalkers. Henry ignored both.
“Do you believe that?” he asked in a conspiratorial tone. “That Quinlan was just trying to help Eunice?”
He was disappointed when Thatcher replied temperately that he did not know.
“And as for forgetting about the murder . . .” Henry continued with scorn.
“If Quinlan and Valenti can forget about the murder,” Thatcher agreed, “then they will be the only ones who can.”
Chapter 15
GROUND COVER
THATCHER AND Henry set off on foot for the Ritz where they had reserved rooms for the night.
Henry, engaged in internal struggle, remained silent Thatcher was not surprised. Henry had come gallivanting down from New Hampshire with high hopes of unmasking Lester’s murderer. By now those hopes had been dashed.
“I suppose,” said Henry suddenly, “that we should take Quinlan’s advice ourselves.”
Thatcher abandoned the scenery on Commonwealth Avenue for his companion.
“I mean,” said Henry doggedly, “we should probably forget about the murder. Get back up to the Trail.”
“This doesn’t sound like you, Henry,” said Thatcher cautiously.
“It’s simply a matter of will power,” said Henry with dignity. “I shall put the matter entirely from my mind.”
And, for the rest of the afternoon, he did.
James Joel Finley was not so fortunate. He would have given his eyeteeth to forget Stephen Lester and Fiord Haven. But it was not possible. Even while Henry and Thatcher were strolling back to the Ritz, Finley was descending on the premises of Northern Land Development.
His initial reception was flattering. James Joel Finley was the nearest thing to distinction ever to have visited that office and he commanded the devotion of the entire clerical staff. Like acolytes, young girls swarmed around him ready to anticipate his wishes, run his errands and provide for his comfort. Normally, Finley relished this round-eyed homage. Today, it interfered with his plans.
“I told Mr. Valenti’s secretary that you had to speak with him,” a messenger reported. “But she said he’s in conference with Mr. Quinlan about our radio promotion.”
Finley frowned.
“I could get him out for you, Mr. Finley,” the girl volunteered.
Finley was gracious. “That won’t be necessary, my dear.”
“I’d tell him it was important,” she persisted.
“No! I don’t want to make an issue of it.” Finley heard the snap in his voice and recovered control. His smile was strained. “I can very profitably use the time myself. I have some telephoning to do.”
This evasion merely produced another assistant. “Oh, Mr. Finley, I’ll put through your calls for you,” said a small pert redhead. “I’m going on at the switchboard now.”
Finley, with that old-world courtesy that had won him his admirers, took an elbow in either hand and ushered both girls to the door. “No, no,” he said, indulgently firm, “these are private calls.”
Amanda Lester, whatever her faults, was nobody’s acolyte.
“No, Daddy,” she announced firmly, “I’m going to handle this myself.”
Her father stared in astonishment. In twenty-six years Amanda had never done anything for herself. To the best of his knowledge she had never even contemplated doing so. If there was one thing he and Rosemary prided themselves on, it was bringing up a simple, old-fashioned girl.
“Now, honey,” he began uneasily, “do you think Steve would have liked to see you acting this way?”
Amanda’s reply was withering. “Steve isn’t here to see how I’m acting. He’s dead, remember?”
David Trainor’s face went blank.
He thinks I’m being brutal, she thought suddenly. He doesn’t realize I’m just being realistic.
The trouble, she knew, was that her father couldn’t believe she was a widow. He saw her as a child. By stretching, he could make it a young bride. But that was as far as he could go. Probably nobody considered a woman adult until she became a mother.
“Everything is Eunice’s fault,” she said obscurely. “You know it is.”
“Well, we can’t be certain about that, can we?” her father temporized. His voice assumed a specious authority. “The police will find out who murdered Steve, Mandy. Let them do it their own way.”
“Their own way! You saw that letter from California. Somebody’s been digging up that old marijuana party. You know it was Eunice. She’s probably giving the police an earful. And you expect me to take this lying down?” She glared.
Mr. Trainor was helpless. Amanda was making him remember that terrible time with the call from the police station at three o’clock in the morning. They had Mandy—his Mandy—in a cell. All his instincts were to forget that night as completely as possible.
Meanwhile, Amanda was acting. She dialed a number scribbled on a pad. As she waited for the connection, she turned to her father again.
“And Daddy,” she said almost threateningly, “don’t tell Mother.”
Then the receiver squeaked and her voice held nothing but hard impatience.
“This is Mrs. Amanda Lester. Please put me through to Mr. Quinlan, at once.”
Eddie Quinlan hung up the receiver and stared at it incredulously. Then he shook his head and blinked once before speaking.
“Either she’s going crazy, or I am.”
Ralph Valenti looked more worried than ever. “That was Amanda Lester, wasn’t it?”
“She’s coming to the Pru,” Eddie said baldly.
“My God!” Valenti exploded. “Who was fool enough to ask her?”
Quinlan shrugged. “No one as far as I know.”
“Her husband was just murdered the other day.” Valenti’s ideas of decorum were shaken. “That girl doesn’t know how to behave. This is no time for a widow to be coming to parties.”
Quinlan leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling through narrowed eyes. “Amanda’s not out for pleasure. She says she has to speak to us urgently. So that we can straighten out our stories to the police.”
“Another one!” The shadows were back on Valenti’s face. “That’s all I need.”
“Ralph, we’ve got to handle her carefully. She may have come up with something new. She sounds as if she’s nerving herself for something.”
“I say we shouldn’t have anything to do with her,” Valenti said stubbornly. “She’s a troublemaker.”
Quinlan looked up swiftly. He heard a new note in Valenti’s voice. “Everything�
�s up to you, Ralph. I’ll let you call the shots.”
“If it weren’t for Fiord Haven—” Valenti was fervent.
“Fiord Haven means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Ralph?” Quinlan asked seriously.
“It means everything.”
* * *
Eunice Lester was staring hopelessly across the table at Peter Vernon. She could see he was going to be difficult.
“I don’t understand you, Eunice,” he was saying. “I really don’t. Of course, the whole thing is unpleasant, there’s no denying it. But your problems are over. It would be silly not to recognize that. In the long run, this makes things easier for you.”
“Easier?” Eunice gasped, hysteria nearly displacing the sarcasm she intended.
Vernon’s slow, grave explanation did not falter. “Yes, this means an end to that custody suit. I never did like the idea of going into court.”
“I told you I was taking care of that,” Eunice said abruptly.
“Of course. But this solves everything.”
“Does it occur to you, Peter darling,” Eunice asked with dangerous sweetness, “that the police are arguing along exactly the same lines? In their eyes, it gives me a motive for murdering Steve.”
“That’s nonsense,” Peter said predictably. “And they’ll soon see it themselves.”
Oh, thought Eunice, if only she knew what Peter was really thinking! Was he being tactful? Was he being sincere? Was there new reserve in his attitude toward her? It did not help that his avowed opinion was that she was a creature of unbridled passion. Until two weeks ago, this assessment had been flattering. But now? This was no time to resemble a tigress lashing her tail. Consciously she tried to create an atmosphere of cool, common sense.
“I’d like them to see it as soon as possible,” she said calmly.
Peter was reassured. “Then the thing to do is cooperate when they ask for cooperation. Otherwise, have nothing to do with the whole affair. Forget about it as much as possible. It’s not as if you were involved.”
Eunice flinched. There was a shade of reserve in his last statement. She played her trump card.