The Longer the Thread

by Emma Lathen

  Eric Marten, Slax Commercial Manager, Margarita being his wife who was part of a rich Puerto Rican family.

  Benito Dominguez, Slax’s most difficult foreman.

  Miss Mellors, Dept Store buyer upset about damaged deliveries from Slax.

  Mrs. (Call me Patsy) Schroeder, Thatcher’s assigned secretary in Puerto Rico originally from Indiana who was a soul mate of Miss Corsa, or sisters under the skin as Thatcher thought.

  Dr. Ramirez, a member of the legislature, representing the Independence Party.

  Ernesto Mendez, Dr. Ramirez’s secretary, his wife’s nephew.

  Prudencio Nadal, Head of Radical Independents, the student group seeking separation from the Commonwealth Status of Puerto Rico.

  Captain Valleyo, Policeman in charge of the case.

  Annie Luisa Galiano, a union legend in the Ladies’ Garment Workers’ union who got most things smoothed out as she did eventually, in part, at Slax.

  Wilfredo Moreno, freight forwarder for Slax in Puerto Rico who provided the clinching evidence of murder and almost got killed himself for his troubles and civic-mindedness.

  Emma Lathen Political Mysteries

  As R. B. Dominic

  31. Murder Sunny Side Up 1968. Agriculture.

  32. Murder in High Place 1969. Overseas Travelers.

  33. There is No Justice 1971. Supreme Court.

  34. Epitaph for a Lobbyist 1974. Lobbyists.

  35. Murder Out of Commission 1976. Nuke Plants.

  36. The Attending Physician 1980. Health Care.

  37. Unexpected Developments 1983. Military.

  Tom Walker Mysteries

  Patricia Highsmith Style

  Deaver Brown, Author

  01. 18. Football, Superbowl & Business

  02. Abduct. Sexual Misconduct.

  03. Body. Planned Eliminations for Money.

  04. Comfortable. Avoiding Consequences.

  05. Death. Wrong Place at the Wrong Time.

  06. Enthusiast. Opportunity Murder.

  07. Fraud. Taking Your Chances.

  08. Greed. Heirs Who Know Better.

  09. Heat. Heir Arrogance.

  10. Island. Startup.

  A similarly popular Simply Media mystery series.

  Financial & Other Facts

  Emma Lathen and Tom Walker

  are about money and emotion.

  Simply Media will be offering Emma Lathen and Tom Walker

  eBook Collections at a discount.

  Thank you for reading our series.

  Enjoy and prosper!

  Deaver Brown, Publisher & Editor.

  www.simplymedia.com

  Chapter 1.

  Bias Binding

  Wall Street is the greatest financial market in the world, and the function of a market is to provide an arena for smooth and orderly transactions. So the New York Stock Exchange regularly distributes millions of brochures describing how Mr. Jones in Dallas, wishing to sell one hundred shares of U.S. Steel, and Mr. Smith in Minneapolis, wishing to buy one hundred shares of U.S. Steel, are brought together (at very slight cost) through the good offices of Wall Street. The facts as described are accurate, although Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, the New York Stock Exchange—and U.S. Steel, for that matter—emerge as curiously bloodless entities.

  Reality from the Battery to Maiden Lane is less tidy. True, docile buyers and apathetic sellers do exist on Wall Street. But other actors also appear: plaintiffs and defendants, inside accountants and outside auditors, stockholders and company presidents, the Internal Revenue and capital-gains acrobats. Their encounters are rarely bloodless. It is only in theory that competition and profit-maximizing have a Doric serenity; in practice they entail one battle after another. All men may be brothers, but Wall Street knows that Cain and Abel were brothers, too.

  John Putnam Thatcher was reflecting on aggression in this special sense one bitter January afternoon. As senior vice-president of the Sloan Guaranty Trust, the third largest bank in the world, he had witnessed more than his share of combat. He himself had a very creditable win-loss record. Nevertheless, for some reason, unnatural bellicosity was surfacing on all fronts today.

  The morning had begun with Hugh Waymark, of Waymark-Sims, on the phone. Waymark wanted to lead a search-and-destroy mission against a well-known financial weekly.

  “Yes, Hugh—”

  Waymark was not listening this morning. “Slanderous! Publishing any gossip! That magazine is completely irresponsible! Now, I happen to know that they’re short of cash . . .”

  The article in question, Thatcher recalled, had been titled “Waymark-Sims, Aging Titan?” When he hung up, he had no doubt that Hugh Waymark was on the warpath.

  But Hugh was pugnacious by nature. Tom Robichaux, one of the partners at Robichaux & Devane, investment bankers, as well as one of Thatcher’s oldest friends, was not. During business hours at least, Tom usually tended toward philosophic mournfulness.

  Lunch at Fraunces Tavern had found him breathing fire. More surprisingly, he was mapping long-term strategy designed to pulverize an enemy.

  “. . . short-term credit. We can lend Bravura Chemicals three or four million. That should tide them through the next six months and fix Joe Frisch’s wagon!”

  Thatcher broke into this recital. The object of Robichaux’ wrath was an energetic hotel tycoon who had recently mounted a proxy fight against Waldoboro Computers. Proxy fights, as Thatcher knew, always make conservatives mutter about piracy and unprincipled looting. But this daring raid had failed.

  “So why this ferocity now, Tom?” he inquired.

  Robichaux downed his fork and leaned forward confidentially. “This Frisch fellow,” he said darkly, “has a tremendous cash flow. No telling where he may strike next. The time to stop him is now!”

  Thatcher could not accept this. “You’re not gunning for everybody with liquid assets, are you, Tom? We’ve got a pretty good cash flow at the Sloan, too, you know.”

  Eyebrows quivering, Tom informed him it was no laughing matter. He then added cryptically, “Hotels.”

  Whatever the provocation, Robichaux was clearly readying an onslaught.

  As he inched his way back to the Sloan through a near-blizzard, Thatcher was moved to congratulate himself for being a neutral in these various frays. But before he brushed the snow from his overcoat, he discovered he had a fighting war of his own.

  Waiting in his office were two men who had not appeared on the schedule that his secretary, Miss Corsa, prepared each morning. Unfortunately, they were both valued members of the Sloan Guaranty Trust. Even more unfortunately, they were bristling at each other.

  “I don’t care how busy Thatcher is,” said Innes, from International Division. “I have to see him this afternoon.”

  Before Miss Corsa could reply, the second man cut in. “Where do you get that ‘I’ business? Let’s get one thing straight, Innes. If you see Thatcher, I’m going to be right there with you!” Pete Olmsted was one of the senior men in the Commercial Credit Department. A short, rosy-faced man built for good cheer, he was now stuttering with anger.

  “And another thing, Innes,” he went on inexorably, “I don’t like this end play you’re trying! If Milly hadn’t found out you were sneaking up here—”

  “Listen, Olmsted,” Innes began ominously.

  Just then the combatants sighted Thatcher poised in the doorway.

  “John! Good! Now, it’s important . . .”

  “Thank God, you can put a stop to this . . .”

  “Mr. Thatcher!” Without noticeable effort, Miss Corsa managed to penetrate the din. “Mr. Lancer is waiting for you. I am afraid you are already late.”

  George C. Lancer was certainly not waiting for him, as both Thatcher and Miss Corsa knew. But Lancer was chairman of the board of the Sloan Guaranty Trust. When Miss Corsa upstaged someone, she did it right. Innes and Olmsted were disciplined. They accepted, however grudgingly.

  “But we’ve got to get this settled pretty soon,” said Olm
sted truculently.

  “You’re right about that at least,” said Innes tightly.

  An exchange of challenging looks.

  Thatcher could play his part as well as Miss Corsa. Hurrying into his own office, he cast cold comfort over his shoulder. “Perhaps Miss Corsa can fit you in later this afternoon. If not, tomorrow . . .”

  He closed the door behind him. His seething subordinates, he knew, could be left to his secretary. Miss Corsa’s splendid indifference to human passion left her capable of suggesting to these two warriors that they prepare reports on the casus belli. Any woman who can tell a soul in torment to send a memorandum is worth her weight in gold. Thatcher only hoped that last Christmas’ present, a marvel of leathercraft by Gucci, conveyed how much he valued Miss Corsa. He would never know. Miss Corsa was also splendidly uncommunicative.

  “And what’s all that about?” he asked when she arrived a few moments later to take dictation.

  “Puerto Rico,” she said simply. She then settled herself and waited for him to proceed. At hand was a strong letter to a Sloan customer who had developed an unhealthy interest in the commodity market. She realized that Mr. Thatcher was still waiting and amplified: “International and Commercial Credit have been fighting about Puerto Rico. I understand they’ve been talking to Mr. Withers.” Her pause was an editorial comment.

  “I see,” said Thatcher. Any dispute within the bank that found its way to the desk of President Bradford Withers was bound to escalate. Brad routinely saw all points of view—in rapid succession. Nor was his executive function improved by his frequent departures. Yesterday morning, for instance, he had embarked upon what the Public Relations Department was euphemistically describing as a fact-finding mission to Fiji.

  Anyone seriously interested in bird migration, Thatcher had often thought, could do worse than study Withers through the seasons.

  “And he’s dumped a mess of some sort in my lap,” he said without undue resentment. Problems that Brad Withers touched usually did find their way to him, sooner or later. “Do we know exactly what there is about Puerto Rico that’s set off Innes and Olmsted, Miss Corsa?”

  She was evasive. “I’ve sent for the files. And both Mr. Innes and Mr. Olmsted are preparing memos for you.”

  Like Innes and Olmsted, Thatcher was disciplined. He realized that he was not going to hear any of the gossip and rumor that always swirled around these in-house feuds. Instead, Miss Corsa was going to present him with all the news that was fit to print, so to speak.

  “Fine,” he said, accepting the inevitable. He put Puerto Rico from his mind and concentrated on an ingenuous scheme to use Sloan money in the pork-belly market. “Dear Woolner . . . While we are interested in your model for estimating supply, we at the Sloan still feel that demand plays a part in price changes—even in pork-belly futures. Accordingly . . .”

  But such peace was not destined to endure. Within two hours, Puerto Rico was monopolizing his attention. If nothing else, he reflected, he now knew why Brad Withers had fled to the Antipodes.

  Innes and Olmsted had both sped back to their offices to dictate position papers at breakneck speed. Thatcher had just finished skimming through these documents, which were bulky, impassioned and mutually incompatible. He did not have every detail at his fingertips, but he could see, all too clearly, the shape of things to come. Puerto Rico did not represent a minor difference of opinion, it was a head-on collision.

  He turned a page of Pete Olmsted’s report. A month ago, Commercial Credit had lent three million dollars to Slax Unlimited, Inc., a manufacturer of ladies’ slacks and sportswear.

  “CC has been doing business with Slax for many years,” said Olmsted’s memo searingly. Not content to leave it at that, he appended statistics of every Sloan deal with Slax since 1952.

  As he read about new plants in Georgia, about pension funds and short-term credits, Thatcher recalled a fact. Olmsted was the Sloan’s expert on the garment trade. He was probably the only member of the bank who read Women’s Wear Daily as religiously as he read the Wall Street Journal.

  Slax, Thatcher read, was a family firm owned by Harry Zimmerman, son of the founder, and his sister. It had developed a well-known trade name, thanks to a product line aimed at the youthful, style-conscious, middle-income market. Zimmerman was pushing an aggressive expansion program that would, so Olmsted felt, very likely push Slax to the top of its field.

  “. . . new up-to-date production facilities,” Olmsted wound up at white heat. “Naturally, Commercial Credit was happy to make a sound loan to an old and valued Sloan customer, who shows every sign of expanding significantly.”

  If Commercial Credit was happy, International was not. For while Slax Unlimited maintained sales, advertising and executive offices at 1407 Broadway, New York, production these days was farther afield—in Georgia and in Bayamón, Puerto Rico.

  “I need not remind you,” said Innes on page seven, “of the Sloan policy to funnel all relevant investments and credits through local Sloan branches. International Division, and in particular the Sloan Guaranty Trust (N.A.) in Hato Rey, Puerto Rico, is the appropriate coordinating authority for any credits extended to garment manufacturers when their facilities are located in Puerto Rico.”

  Neither Innes nor Olmsted was sticking to the high road.

  “In case they haven’t noticed in International,” said Olmsted in a nasty parenthesis, “Puerto Rico is not a foreign country. It is part of the United States of America.”

  Innes, if anything, stooped lower. “We have developed in Puerto Rico a large expert staff, fully able to deal with usages, business practices and tax situations about which Commercial Credit knows little. It is our understanding that the only persons in CC who are fluent in Spanish, for example, are certain members of the typing pool.”

  All this unsuppressed emotion told Thatcher one thing at least. There was no use summoning the antagonists and ordering them to settle this squabble themselves. On the contrary, prudence suggested keeping Innes and Olmsted as far from each other as possible for the time being.

  Thatcher swiveled around to watch the snow. This meant that he was going to have to make some decision about the Sloan in Puerto Rico. The one thing he could not do was let the situation fester. It was tempting to consider leaving it for Brad Withers, that eminent traveler. Or for George C. Lancer, who was the Sloan’s real enthusiast for overseas branches. But God knew when Withers would reappear, and Lancer was currently trying to salvage something from unhappy developments at the London branch.

  “Miss Corsa,” he told his intercom resignedly. “Will you get Bowman to send up whatever he’s got on Puerto Rico? I’m afraid this is going to be our baby.”

  Miss Corsa said she had spoken to the Research Department already.

  “And you’d better schedule Innes and Olmsted for tomorrow morning,” Thatcher went on.

  “Separately,” said Miss Corsa, anticipating him again.

  Resolutely, Thatcher turned his attention to the problem.

  It was indubitably true, as Innes maintained, that the Sloan’s ever-increasing activities outside the continental United States were coordinated through a whole phalanx of specialists in foreign parts. There were now massive edifices representing the bank from Rio de Janeiro to Paris.

  Including one in Puerto Rico. It had been opened, with appropriate hoopla, some two years ago. Both Withers and Lancer had trekked south for the festivities. Thatcher, whose interest in the ribbon-cutting side of banking disappointed Miss Corsa, had not.

  In theory, the Sloan Guaranty Trust, Hato Rey, San Juan, Puerto Rico, should be what the Sloan Guaranty Trust in Tokyo was. Commercial Credit was perfectly willing to leave Japan to International Division. Unfortunately, an American company on American soil was something else.

  This was not a view that Innes could accept. For fully an hour the following morning he put his case to Thatcher. No one was claiming that Puerto Rico was a foreign country. Not at all. But it was not Long Island
either. Doing business in Puerto Rico called for old Puerto Rican hands. Men who knew the language. Men who understood the peculiar economic situation. Men with contacts in the government . . .

  Twenty minutes later found Thatcher’s second visitor of the morning also pushing the old-hand line. Olmsted, however, was pushing the experience and knowledgeability needed to survive in the garment trade. He had even brought evidence with him.

  “John,” he said, his usual expansive self again, “I know how interested you are in our Slax loan. So when Harry here dropped by to pick up some papers, I told him I knew you’d want to meet him.”

  Thatcher found himself greeting Harry Zimmerman, president and owner of Slax. He was a solid middle-aged man with a vigorous handshake.

  “I think we’ve hammered out a deal that’s good for you and good for Slax,” he said. “I don’t know if Pete told you, but we’ve got big hopes for the new line we’re introducing this spring. For pre-teeners. That’s a big market, and I think Slax is going to be in a position to crack it.”

  “Are you producing it down in Puerto Rico?” Thatcher asked. “Or at your plant in Georgia?”

  Olmsted, like a proud parent, could not restrain himself. “You should see the Slax layout in Bayamón, John. It’s one of the most modern garment plants in the world, isn’t it, Harry?”

  Thatcher’s attention was captured by Zimmerman. He had a ruddy, fleshy face, with shrewd eyes. A few moments earlier he had radiated confidence and ease. Suddenly he was completely expressionless.

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “And we’re getting good cost results from Georgia too. We’ll be producing in both plants. But the important thing is distribution these days. We’ve just made some new arrangements . . .” He went on to describe Slax’s distribution system.

  “Do you ship by sea from Puerto Rico?” Thatcher asked.