Pick Up Sticks

by Deaver Brown

  It took time to sell Henry on anything so tame, but in the end Thatcher prevailed.

  Early the next morning, they left the Trail to hike four miles to Route 84 and the Kitt’s Crossing General Store. And while Henry prowled up and down, Thatcher made one telephone call. It took a full forty minutes and, oddly enough, was not to the New Hampshire State Police, to Boston, or even to Ruth. It was to the Sloan Guaranty Trust.

  “All set?” asked Henry conspiratorially.

  “I hope so,” Thatcher replied. “Now, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “And in the meantime—?”

  In the meantime, John Putnam Thatcher and Henry Morland had plenty to do.

  Chapter 23

  WOODLAND PLOT

  DURING HER tenure as Thatcher’s secretary, Miss Corsa had received many bizarre instructions. Fortunately, she was by nature unexcitable; experience had simply reinforced instinct. No matter what Mr. Thatcher’s requests, Miss Corsa took careful notes, asked only what was necessary and, insofar as possible, did as told.

  This suited Thatcher very well. On occasion, however, it maddened the rest of the Sloan. As Miss Corsa communicated with the subordinates Mr. Thatcher had named during his latest call, the subordinates were variously shaken, startled or outraged. In each and every instance, Miss Corsa’s composure added fuel to the fire.

  Kenneth Nicolls, for example, was nonplussed. A junior member of the trust department, he was a serious-minded young man, eager to fulfill his responsibilities. The trouble was that the nature of these responsibilities, as defined by John Thatcher, kept catching him off base.

  “But what am I supposed to do?” he demanded.

  “You are,” Miss Corsa quoted accurately, “to keep your eyes open, express real interest and, as late as possible, purchase a lot.”

  Ken recognized Thatcher’s words. Since they were not emanating directly from Thatcher, he protested.

  “Purchase a lot?” he shouted. “How the hell . . .?”

  Miss Corsa had already moved on.

  Everett Gabler was indignant. “More delays. I foresaw them. Indeed I did. Yes, of course I have made notes, Miss Corsa. But you say that John, himself, will not be there? I suppose I should have expected that. When anybody in this bank is going to give the State Banking Commission the attention it requires is what I would like to know.”

  He was still fulminating as Miss Corsa departed in search of Charlie Trinkam.

  Here Miss Corsa enountered her first real resistance. Trinkam, normally the least difficult of Thatcher’s staff, raised an objection. Moreover, to her extreme discomfiture, he insisted on telling her about it.

  “Sure, sure,” he said absently after hearing her out, “but I don’t buy it. This business of registering at the motel as Mr. and Mrs. Trinkam, I mean.”

  This aspect of affairs had not occurred to Miss Corsa. It left her without a word to say. Miss Corsa had high principles and not even for Mr. Thatcher would she lend a helping hand to any occasion for sin. Worse was yet to come.

  Charlie Trinkam, as he made clear, had no objection to occasions for sin. Other things troubled him. “Now, the one thing I’ve always been straight about is marriage, Rose. But you start playing house like this and people get the wrong ideas. And Sylvia Hazen—well, with Sylvia, you have to watch your step. No, we’d better make a change or two—”

  This time Miss Corsa did not withdraw. She fled.

  Very few security systems outside the government (or within it) are absolutely money-proof. Two calls by Sylvia Hazen to what she described as “buddies in Boston,” plus a promise of one hundred dollars, persuaded a clerk in an office in Kenmore Square to make additions to a list of names. As a result, on Friday night, Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Nicolls, Mr. Everett Gabler, Mr. Charles Trinkam and Miss Sylvia Hazen found themselves in the lobby of the White Mountains Motel, surrounded by predatory young men.

  “. . . let me show you to your room,” said Gerry Wahl to the Nicollses. “On the way, we can stop to look at the various models, in case you’re interested in building. We’ve got some architect-designed beauties.”

  Jane Nicolls, who had red hair and an enchanting smile, shot a mischievous look up at her husband and said, “Is that the architect who was arrested?”

  Undeflected, Wahl drowned her out. “Oh, I want you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Davidson. They know as much about Fiord Haven as I do, ha ha!”

  A similar voice, aimed at Everett, had progressed further, possibly because of the total lack of response. “. . . cocktail party, courtesy of Fiord Haven, Mr. Gabler.”

  Everett compressed his lips. “. . . talk by Mr. Quinlan about the philosophy behind Fiord Haven after dinner tonight.”

  Charlie closed the door behind his tormentor and examined a brochure: YOUR FUN WEEKEND PROGRAM. Scanning a virtually unbroken two-day schedule of activities, he wondered if he had not perhaps demonstrated an excess of caution. After lectures by Quinlan, slides shown by somebody named Ivor, tours of building sites, sociability hours, buffet dinners and question-and-answer sessions, would he have energy to do anything but collapse into a solitary bed?

  Miss Hazen, meanwhile, was demoralizing Burt O’Neil. It was not the slim cigar. It was the terrifying knowledgeability.

  “. . . protection and privacy,” he faltered, fascinated.

  She blew a smoke ring. “Great. Now what’s the fallout from the police investigations? How do your sales charts look?”

  Burt floundered and Miss Hazen passed rapidly on. “And when does the bar open? I wouldn’t say no to a drink.”

  The relationship between salesman and customer is complicated. Car buyers and housewives might be chagrined to realize how quickly and accurately good salesmen size them up. Escorting Fiord Haven’s guests to their motel units gave the salesman a chance for a preliminary inspection. Then, while the Nicollses and thirty-four other people unpacked, Eddie Quinlan held a sales meeting.

  “. . . this guy Gabler,” a salesman named Lou summarized. “Sure, maybe he’s interested in a retirement home, but he’s the kind who looks as if everything smells bad. He’ll be tough . . .”

  “Let Gus take a crack at him,” Quinlan decided. “What about Trinkam?”

  Trinkam’s man grinned. “Could be a looker, but if there’s any chance for a sale, Yvonne’s the one to make it.”

  There was a general laugh. Yvonne was a deceptively angel-faced blonde whose specialty was melting male sales resistance.

  “Fine,” said Quinlan, “now Burt . . .?”

  The Nicollses were pegged as standard. Sylvia Hazen, Burt reported, was anybody’s guess.

  After the rest of the party had been reviewed, Quinlan looked at the staff. The strain of the last weeks had sharpened his features.

  “Any feedback?”

  Reluctantly one salesman spoke up. “One old lady asked if this wasn’t where the murder took place. But she was interested, Eddie, not scared. That isn’t what worries me. I don’t like having the Davidsons up here again, Eddie. They’re bound to shoot off their mouths—”

  Quinlan impatiently interrupted. “Can’t be helped,” he said shortly. “They may buy, don’t forget that. Anyway, we’re clean. Finley went nuts, but Finley’s in jail. That’s all over, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Fiord Haven. But let’s not remind people. Don’t mention architects. don’t put a lot of emphasis on safety or protection. Stress fun and relaxation, okay? And I’ll keep an eye on the Davidsons, to be sure they don’t make trouble.”

  A gong sounded and the sales force scattered. No Fiord Haven guests were going to drink alone in the Pine Cone Lounge. Slowly, Eddie Quinlan followed.

  Forty-five minutes later, Everett Gabler, clutching a tomato juice that disheartened Gus, was inspecting Fiord Haven much as he might inspect a zoo.

  “. . . very little upkeep. For people on fixed incomes, it’s wonderful not to have to pay rent.”

  Gus was trying to spark Gabler’s interest. He was lucky he failed, since Everet
t was quite capable of reading him a blighting lecture on elementary real estate economics. But Everett was absorbing the passing scene.

  The piano was playing softly in the background. Circulating through the room were waiters with drinks, followed by salesmen, moving with ballet corps precision.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Gabler,” said Eddie Quinlan, appearing beside him. “I understand you’re from New York. Lots of New Yorkers retire to New Hampshire.”

  “So I understand,” said Everett. Gus had faded away to lend a hand elsewhere.

  “One of the advantages of Fiord Haven,” Quinlan continued fluently, “is that you won’t be isolated. We’re going to have stores and recreation areas. Actually, Fiord Haven will be self-contained, almost a small city.”

  After more smooth comments, Quinlan excused himself and moved on. It was a remarkable performance, Everett had to admit. Particularly in view of what Eddie Quinlan and Fiord Haven had been through.

  Another salesman materialized. “Let me tell you about our low taxes,” he began.

  Everett carefully placed his glass on a nearby tray and made his move.

  “What is the fishing like?”

  The salesman was taken aback. Gabler did not have the look of a sportsman. But, since you never can tell, he replied:

  “We will have one of the finest lakes in New Hampshire . . .”

  Everett, who knew nothing about fishing, was gambling that the salesman did not either.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing that lake on the tour tomorrow,” he said. “You can get a good idea of what the fishing is like, if you keep your eyes open.”

  “Uh . . . yes,” said the salesman, as if this made sense.

  “I hope we’re going to be seeing it early in the morning,” Everett continued, hazily recalling that anglers rise before dawn.

  “They’re ready for us in the dining room,” the salesman pointed out.

  Everett smiled to himself. Prying anything negative out of Fiord Haven was like pulling teeth. “What time will we be touring the lake?” he asked inexorably.

  Involuntarily, the salesman looked around for assistance. Then, “Unfortunately, the access roads aren’t in yet, so we can’t show you the lake itself. We do have photographs.”

  “Hmph,” said Everett Gabler.

  Yvonne and Charlie were sharing a table with Sylvia Hazen and the hapless Burt.

  “You don’t mind if I call you Charlie,” Yvonne suggested demurely.

  “Sweetie,” said Sylvia, whose voice had turned slightly brassy, “how about passing the salt?”

  On all fronts mental notes were promptly made. Yvonne reminded herself to have a little talk with Burt. He had led her to expect a gym teacher, hence these seating arrangements. But no gym teacher could afford those clothes. And Miss Hazen’s swagger was not asexual. Far from it. Burt swore to himself that somebody else was going to have to handle Miss Hazen. His nerves weren’t up to it. Charlie was asking himself what he had done to deserve this.

  “One thing for certain,” Yvonne resumed with a suggestive smile, “Fiord Haven is going to be a fun place. You know, we’re going to have a rathskeller, for after-ski parties.”

  Dully, Burt recognized a cue. “You can drop in even if you don’t ski, ha ha!”

  “Ha ha!” said Miss Hazen.

  Fortunately, they were interrupted. Eddie Quinlan stood over them.

  After introductions, Sylvia Hazen looked him up and down. “You really put on a bash, don’t you?”

  Quinlan took her in stride. “Glad you could come,” he replied easily. “We think you’re going to like what we have to show you. Don’t let me disturb you. I just want you to take over for me tonight, Burt. I’ve got to drive down to Boston.”

  “Sure, Eddie.” Burt was automatically cheerful. “Unless you want to, Yvonne?”

  “Oh no,” she said prettily. “I think public speaking is for you men.”

  Everybody but Sylvia laughed. She, in what was not an undertone, made a one-word comment.

  Charlie hastily hurled his thoughts elsewhere. Could every Fiord Haven salesman deliver every sales pitch? Fiord Haven had gone beyond the hard sell into interchangeable parts.

  After dinner, it became obvious that Burt O’Neil knew his piece. His remarks about the philosophy behind Fiord Haven were fairly well received.

  “Although,” said Jane Nicolls to her husband when they finally escaped, “I think I detected signs of restiveness. And Ken, did you know that the young Davidson couple was here when Steve Lester—”

  To her mystification, Ken gestured for silence. Since they were alone in the privacy of their motel room, this struck her as odd until he bent down to whisper in her ear, “They may have bugged the room.”

  Jane went off into peals of laughter.

  In an artificial voice, Ken said, “What about sitting out on the lawn for a while before we turn in?”

  “Turn in?” she gurgled.

  He saw that brute force would be necessary.

  “C’mon,” he said, grasping her by the elbow.

  Outside, in the chill of an autumn night, Jane shivered in her light sweater and asked if he were serious.

  “Sure I am,” said Ken. “Some of these places do bug the rooms, to keep tabs on customer reaction.”

  “I’ll bet they get a lot more than customer reaction,” said Jane indignantly. “That’s the most disgraceful thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  “That’s why I didn’t want you to mention Steve Lester’s murder,” he explained.

  “Or the fact that I really am Amanda Lester and that you are impersonating Steve. All right, I’ll be careful. But you, too. I don’t want you to get clobbered.”

  Ken promised to do his best to avoid it.

  For tomorrow would see a reenactment of the crime, although that was perhaps too ambitious a way to put it. The Nicollses were simply going to retrace the activities of Steve and Amanda Lester on the earlier fun weekend, the weekend that had ended in murder. Jane pulled her sweater closer. This was no more than a run-through, to check out some minor details. There was no real danger. Nevertheless, her shivering was hot due solely to the cold. Ken put an arm around her.

  Twenty-four hours later, Jane Nicolls was beginning to tire. Morning had been a tour of building sites; before lunch there had been a talk about property values; lunch had featured institutional jollity; after lunch there had been a slide showing followed by another lecture. And the evening, from the hour of sociability to the bitter end, had seemed far, far longer than their first night.

  “What I’d like to do,” she said, “is to knock one of them down and gag him.”

  “Mmph,” said Ken.

  “Your ankle still hurt?” she asked solicitously.

  For Ken Nicolls, like Steve Lester before him, had by-passed the afternoon’s organized activities, to take a long walk. He had, by prearrangement, bumped into Everett Gabler. He had doubled back to the motel, chatted with Jane. Then, he had gamely set out for the long hike to the lodge.

  “And the whole upshot,” he said, “was that I damn near sprained my ankle. Exactly what Thatcher thinks he’s doing—”

  “It’s just until tomorrow night,” Jane soothed him. She had perfect faith in John Thatcher, but had learned not to tell her husband so. “Do you know that the Willets, that nice doctor and his wife, are buying a lot?”

  “Mmph,” said Ken, even more grumpily.

  “And,” said Jane serenely, “I looked very interested. I said I was going to try to convince you—”

  At this point, a contingency unforeseen by Thatcher obtruded—the stubborn intractability of the human spirit.

  “Well, let me tell you one thing,” Ken said ferociously, “I am not letting one of those zombies sell me a lot, not if it costs me my job at the Sloan!”

  “Ken!”

  “And that’s that.”

  “But Mr. Thatcher said—”

  Ken vented his feelings more colorfully and at length. The relief
this afforded him was short-lived.

  “I know how you feel,” said a glum voice. As both the Nicollses jumped, Charlie Trinkam appeared out of the darkness. “Although I’d watch where I said it. You don’t want to blow our cover, do you, Ken?”

  Ken remained tongue-tied, but Jane saw that currently Charlie was not functioning as a professional superior; he was a fellow afflicted spirit.

  “How are things?” she asked carefully, having discovered that Sylvia Hazen had taken to calling Yvonne Little Miss Muffet.

  “Things,” said Charlie comprehensively, “are hell. I feel like a piece of meat.”

  Yvonne had last been heard deploring how New York hardens a woman.

  “On top of everything else,” Charlie grumbled aloud, “I’ll be damned if I’ll buy one of these rotten lots.”

  Surrounded by disaffection, Jane kept her head. “That settles it,” she said cheerfully.

  “Settles what?” her husband asked morosely.

  “Mr. Thatcher said that somebody should buy a Fiord Haven lot. You won’t. Charlie won’t. That leaves . . .”

  For the first time, Ken and Charlie felt slightly cheered.

  Everett Gabler was not suffering as severely as his colleagues. He deemed Fiord Haven meretricious, but Everett was accustomed to institutions that did not win his approval, from the CIA to the Penn Central. Then, too, Everett enjoyed combat. He could not be pushed. Not for him the social lie or the larger capitulation that Fiord Haven extracted from most of its dazed guests. In his own way, Everett was a holy terror.

  “No,” he said to an importunate salesman, “with my stomach, another cocktail party and buffet supper would be fatal. I propose to take a cup of tea—if one is available—to my room, and retire early. Thank you very much. No, I have already looked at that literature. Very interesting indeed.”

  As a resullt, at sales meetings, Fiord Haven wrote Gabler off early in the game.

  “How the hell did he get on the list, Eddie?” somebody asked very late Saturday night.

  Quinlan ran a tanned hand through his hair. “This was . . . God, what the hell was it, Thelma?”

  “They all have charge accounts at S.S. Pierce,” said his secretary proudly. The idea, and the cousin this time, had been hers.