“Buy a hot-dog stand,” said Tom.
“What do you do?” asked Betsy.
“Two things. First, you recognize that your competitor has discovered some process that enables him to make the same product cheaper and better. Second, you hire an industrial spy to find out how he’s doing it. There are only three or four such people in that business. The best, far and away, is Reginald Pennypacker. He’s raised company-spying to a fine art.”
“How do you know?” said Tom.
“If he’d talk, he’d make a whale of a magazine story. And after all, I’m a magazine writer. So I tried to do a story on him more than two years ago. I never got any further than talking to him on the phone a couple of times. He sounded younger than he looks, incidentally. I think he actually wanted publicity, but he also knew that it was not good for his business. Staying under cover is important to him—obviously. I’ve never even seen a picture of him.”
“Well, you must admit,” said Betsy, “you could hardly find a more unsuspicious old guy.”
“He looks like Uncle Wiggly,” said Twit-Twit.
“The secret of his success,” said Tom.
“But how does he really operate?” asked Twit-Twit.
“By boldness. For example, a metal-processor has worked out a new and better way to treat steel, and his competitor wants to know how he is doing it. They call in Pennypacker, and old Reggie spends a week or more in the plant of his employer, learning this particular branch of steel-processing. He is of course briefed on what to look for when he gets into the enemy plant. Then he gets in.”
“How?”
“He has a million ways. Maybe he claims he is a union representative. Or a big bidder for the product. He has occasionally pretended to be a police captain, looking for a holdup suspect, and asks the management to let him tour the plant so he can spot his man. Once, for stage dressing, he bribed a real patrolman in a Midwest town to drive him to the plant gate.”
“Then?”
“He spots what he needs to spot. Maybe he pretends to be a camera fan and takes a few pictures. More often the camera is hidden in his tie or belt buckle. Anyway, he gets what he wants. And for a high price. Who’d suspect a lovable old grandfather?”
“You’ve got to hand it to him,” Tom said. “Think he’d stand still for a TV interview next fall?”
“He’d be crazy to. But maybe he would, if you let him keep his back to the camera. You’ll have the chance to brace him on this trip. Keep one thing in mind, though.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t always operate according to law. Like the kidnapping. Two years ago.”
“Is this a joke?” said Twit-Twit.
I said, “Remember how Three-Kay oil was introduced? The manufacturer leaked news of the new automobile crankcase oil they had developed well in advance of its actual introduction.”
Tom said, “Sure he did. For the sake of publicity.”
“Right. Then suddenly you heard nothing about the product and it didn’t appear on the market for a year. Why?”
“Why?”
“Because the process that made the new oil possible was developed by one engineer at Three-Kay. Only he could map the production process to manufacture it in quantity. Three-Kay had a competitor who didn’t want to be caught without a similar product. The competitor hired Reggie.”
“What happened?”
“Two things. The development engineer who had invented the new oil disappeared. For six months. In that time the competitor learned all Three-Kay knew about the new oil. They learned the process and how to duplicate the equipment. When Three-Kay came out with their new ten-thousand-mile oil, the competitor had the same thing.”
“By golly, that’s right,” said Tom. “I even bought some of it for that Jag we had then.”
“What happened to the engineer?” asked Twit-Twit.
“He had been kidnapped. For six months. Very comfortably. He wasn’t tortured, or anything. The story is that he was flown to one of the smaller Greek islands, where he was given every benefit and courtesy.
“But for six months he was a prisoner, constantly guarded by three men—hired by Pennypacker, presumably. Meanwhile, Pennypacker went to work personally. When the competing firm had caught up with Three-Kay’s research, the engineer was flown to Athens in a private plane and dropped off at the airport. He was even handed ten thousand bucks for consolation. A few days later he showed up in Dallas.
“With as wild a tale as you can imagine. But subsequent investigation proved he was telling the truth. He had been on the island he described, and they even found the house where he had been held.”
“And little old Uncle Wiggly did that?”
“No one can prove it. But in certain circles he gets the credit. His retainer, just for consultation, before he ever lifts a finger, is twenty-five G’s. And it’s paid, gladly.”
“I wonder what he’s doing on board,” said Tom.
“Probably just on vacation,” I said.
“Let’s go topside,” said Betsy.
* * * *
We took the elevator and went up and out on deck, and got some fresh air. I looked north. You couldn’t see Long Island, but we were probably nearing the Hamptons.
Then, because we were all a little tired, and well-dined and wined, we decided on naps, and went to the suite.
This was two bedrooms and a little living room, and we had arranged that Tom and Betsy would have the big bedroom, and Twit-Twit the smaller room with upper and lower bunks. I would use a sort of day bed in the parlor.
I had complained that this was not very companionable, but had not won much attention. Not that I expected to.
When the others had retired I stripped to my shorts, hung up a few suits from my bag, and then I lay down on the day bed. For a little while I could not get to sleep, perhaps because of the filtre. Anyway, I lay there thinking of how suddenly the whole thing had happened.
As I did, I heard a scuffling at the door and saw an envelope push under the doorsill. I got out of bed and picked it up. It was addressed to me in a feminine handwriting.
It said, simply:
“ABC—Starboard boat deck tonight at ten.”
It was signed “M. M.”
Things were starting to work.
* * * *
Perhaps this is as good a time as any to tell you as much as I knew myself at this particular moment.
Chapter 3
A Little Badminton
Newton Harlow III and I belonged to the same athletic club.
He belonged because his family had been charter members since the club was founded more than eighty years ago. I had belonged to it a year and a half because I had been elected and admitted, for reasons obscure to myself. But we both played squash and badminton at about the same speed, and for the past year Newt and I had been getting together to play once or twice a week, when his banking or my newswriting did not interfere.
I suppose in odd ways we admire each other. Newt thinks it is ludicrous, but I hope worthy, that a man can make a fair living by just going places, talking to people, and then writing about it. And I think it is both absurd and wonderful that a man can make a handsome living by computing the interest on large sums, borrowed or loaned, in sixteenths of a cent.
On the day we had had dinner at Twit-Twit’s, Newt and I played three games of badminton singles at the club and retired, sweating and puffing, to the dry-heat room. There we sat, draped in brief towels and enjoying, or at least enduring, the heat.
He seemed oddly quiet, especially considering that he had beaten me handily two games to one. I wiped perspiration from my eyes.
“You won’t do that again. I’m on to that new serve.”
He grinned a little. He knew what I really meant. For a guy who is a highly dignified young banker and has battled hi
s way well up in a world of facts, figures, and cold decisions, Newt is warmly perceptive.
“I am worried,” he said. “I admit it. That’s one reason I felt like a game today.”
“Federal Reserve kicking you boys around again?”
“No. Not at the moment. But the movie business is.”
“Movie business! Don’t tell me your bank, of all the conservative, mossy, old-line banks, is getting into—”
“We are.”
He looked around cautiously, although except for us the heat room had been empty ever since we came in.
He said, “Six months ago we loaned Mel Compton ten million dollars. Two months ago we let him have five million more. I was one of those who favored the loan. Now the money may go up in smoke. Greek smoke.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Don’t think I can’t. You know what Compton’s done. Four successive hit pictures in two years—the hottest director—producer in the business. Each picture was low budget but it netted far up in the millions, and they’re all still making money.”
“I know.”
“He came to us with a proposition. He wanted to make a big-budget picture, and had an unassailable proposition. He had arrangements with both the Turkish and Greek governments—he’s a Turk, you know; Compton’s not his real name—to make a super-spectacular based on Helen of Troy. And he had signed up Merrilee Moore for Helen. He had everything except that much money. It would be the first movie loan our bank ever made but, after some very sober meetings during which we considered his record, we decided to go along. He got the loan. And when he came back later for the other five million, he got that, too.”
“So what’s the trouble?”
“Merrilee.”
“What’s the trouble with Merrilee?”
I thought of her as I’d seen her in some of her pictures, and I laughed at my question. A goddess, a Circe, a taunting temptress, a lovely child, a warm woman...what could be the trouble with Merrilee?
“Nobody knows where she is,” said Newt. He toweled steam off his face.
“Newt, are you crazy? A dame like that doesn’t disappear.”
“She has, though. In fact, as far as we can figure it out, I may well have been the last person to talk to her.”
“For a minute I was afraid you were going to say ‘see her alive.’”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s—she’s met with foul play or anything like that. But—well, here’s the problem. Maybe you can help. Come to think of it, maybe you could damned well help.”
We both mopped perspiration.
“Merrilee worked for C-L-C Productions for almost ten years,” Newt said. “As I’m sure you know. She’s thirty-three now. At C-L-C she did drudgery roles. For years. Minor parts in B pictures at five hundred a week, and completely controlled by the studio. Then she got that good part in—what was the name?”
“One Night on Fifth Avenue.”
“That’s it. Anyway, she suddenly went over very big, and the studio began to star her. Every picture she was in clicked, and she made millions for them. But the damned fools kept her tied to the same old contract.”
“At five hundred a week?”
“Not quite. They upped her salary. But they still didn’t pay her what she was worth. And she had no voice in what roles she would play, what pictures she would do—that sort of thing.”
“So?”
“So when the contract’s final clause was up, she cut loose from C-L-C, and especially from Roger Kane who runs the studio. Kane is a wild neurotic, of course. He has a fantastic temper. There’s a story that he once had three psychiatrists working on him, all at one time, and finally fired all three of them the same day. When Merrilee quit he flew into a fairy fit of rage, called her ungrateful, and swore he’d have revenge. He even claimed he had been going to make Helen himself, and that Merrilee leaked the news to Compton. We at the bank know better, of course.”
“This is a hell of a thing for a bank to have to deal with.”
“Deal with! We’re entirely underwriting the picture that depends on her alone. That’s the rub. She’s missing.”
I was getting interested. “Maybe you’d better explain this in some detail.”
“She came to New York to do some shopping before sailing. She and Compton, and another of our vice-presidents and myself, had dinner at the Colony. I’ve never been at a table so stared at by the rest of the restaurant. She was beautiful and ravishing and, superficially at least, bubbling with excitement. But I got the impression she was haunted by something. And the impression deepened afterward.”
“How do you mean?”
“She was staying at the Carlyle. I offered to drop her off. But when we got there, she suggested a nightcap in the bar. I wanted to catch the 12:35 to Rye but—so. After a very healthy stinger, she told me what was bothering her. She was afraid of crossing the ocean. She had never done it before.”
“That’s why she was scared?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. But she was scared of crossing the ocean. By ship, air—or osmosis. She wouldn’t say why. She did say she was thinking of taking the ship with a suitcaseful of sleeping pills and tranquilizers, and staying in her cabin all the way over and having her maid feed her pills periodically until she reached the other side.”
“She sounds screwy.”
“She is, but only a little. She’s a reasonably balanced girl, Deac. On the level. But something deep was bugging her. Anyway, I made her promise to have another meeting, and she agreed. So, I took her up to her suite, and her maid let her in. Interesting woman, the maid. Hungarian, old, raw-boned. She’s been with Merrilee for some twelve years and is devoted, I take it. At least, the suspicious way she looked at me gave me that idea. I said good night at the door and heard the bolt slide into place before I’d walked two steps.”
“But what in hell is Merrilee afraid of?”
“Wait. Two days later she came down to the bank. She needed to arrange some currency transfers and things, and that was the excuse for having another talk with her. She looked like hell. She’d dyed her hair white, was wearing an old black dress, and I think had even made up to look older. Really an old woman.”
“Why that?”
“I don’t know. She said she just didn’t want to be recognized by fans. But she’d gone a very long way to make sure of it. And of course she’s been accustomed to stage make-up since she was a child. Anyway, she promised solemnly she would be on the Montmartre, and that her maid would be with her, and apparently a publicity man named Jones whom the Compton-studio people assigned to her at the last minute—not to get her publicity, but to shield her from it, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Jones was with her when she came down to the bank. He is not attractive, Deac. Shifty, loud—insincere and probably dishonest, in my opinion. You know those Hollywood types.”
“Sure. But holy jiminy”—I started toweling my wet chest and shoulders for the last time—”all those Hollywood types are nutty. What does she really have to be afraid of? The ship sinking?”
Newt was staring into the corner. “Just fear itself, perhaps. Mutilation, maybe. She’s afraid of something; that’s for sure.”
“But what does crossing the ocean have to do with it? And why the disguise?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re seeing sadists under the bed, Newt. Who in the world would want to touch a hair of the loveliest head—”
“Kane,” said Newt. “Kane would. I think that’s whom she’s hiding from. You don’t know how mad he is, Deac. And you perhaps don’t know how he feels about women. He hates them. Even homely ones. Now the one whom a lot of people think is the most beautiful woman in the world has left his stu
dio, and will make a picture for a rival producer, which will probably prove enormously successful. If it’s ever completed, that is.”
I got up and draped my towel around myself.
“Now you’re sounding more normal. It’s not Merrilee you’re worried about. It’s your fifteen million bucks. But it’ll come out fine. She’ll be a smash, the picture will—”
“Then why has she disappeared?” said Newt. “She’s checked out of the Carlyle and no one knows where she is. She promised to be aboard the boat. But where is she?”
“She’ll show up. How could she turn down a fifteen-million-dollar role?”
“I’m going to make you a proposition,” he said. “It occurred to me before we started the badminton, when you said you had a month’s vacation left over that you wanted to take now. I’ve been thinking about it while we were talking here. How’d you like to take your vacation in Europe, Deac? Expenses paid. And you’ll presumably cross the ocean with Merrilee. In a posh suite on the Montmartre. Even bring a friend or two, if you like.”
I will frankly admit that at this point I returned to the bench and sat down.
“Stop smirking,” I said. “What do you mean, bring a friend?”
“I mean this.” He was talking nervously. “Merrilee will be traveling with her maid. In a suite on the boat deck, as I happen to know. Jones—the publicity man—will be aboard, too. But the bank has a major suite reserved on the Montmartre practically every trip.”
“The hell it does.”
“For our officers. And preferred customers. It’s part of the—part of the banking drill. The suite is also on the boat deck, incidentally, and we’ve held it in reserve simply to protect our investment—a fifteen-million-dollar investment. You could have it.”
I laughed. “This is a new side of banking. Up to now I’ve always thought all you people did was send out notices telling us customers we were overdrawn.”
The Traces of Merrilee Page 3