Death Shall Overcome Page 2

  Bartlett Sims, principal in Waymark & Sims, wise old pro on Wall Street.

  Stanton Carruthers, veteran Wall Street lawyer, adept at getting instructions, winning cases, and appearing harried all at the same time.

  Francis Devane, partner of Tom Robichaux in Robichaux & Devane. A Quaker and strict moralist, making Robichaux & Devane seem to be the odd couple of Wall Street investment firms, with the caveat they made lots of money separately and together in their endeavors while Devane was the moralist and Robichaux the party boy.

  Characters only in Death Shall Overcome

  Nat Schuyler, one of the founders of Schuyler & Schuyler, a noted brokerage firm. A sly wily “old devil,” to quote John Putnam Thatcher, who was still having great fun in his 80s poking and prodding people.

  Edward Parry, Proposed to be a Member of the New York Stock Exchange as the first Black Partner of Schuyler & Schuyler. Astute businessman who set up successful savings and loans in Atlanta and Richmond, Rhodes Scholar, and other noteworthy accomplishments, as well as being the son of a noted capitalist and quiet money family.

  Gloria Parry, Edward’s wife.

  Arthur Foote, unfortunate nicotine poisoning victim at a large meeting to introduce Edward Parry to the Wall Street World.

  Lee Clark, a partner at a competitive firm losing his Harlem Black customers as Ed Parry comes on board at a competitor.

  Dean Caldwell, a committed Southerner, prejudiced against Blacks, and loud about it.

  Owen Abercrombie, adamantly opposed to a Black candidate admitted to the Exchange. His family had money for 9 generations with him in the 10th.

  Vincent McCullough, Schuyler & Schuyler, losing Southern accounts but gaining others after Arthur Foote’s death.

  Detective Sergeant Frazier, a well tailored and turned out detective that Centre Street had clearly picked to approach the Wall Street World about the murder.

  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.

  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.

  A similarly popular Simply Media mystery series.

  Financial & Other Facts

  Emma Lathen is all about the money not the emotion. In that light:

  1. To provide financial incentives for collectors, Simply Media and others savings on groups of 6 eBooks, and the SuperSku (learning from the Star Wars franchise) “all in” collections.

  2. Trust that we have all enjoyed this. But as Willie Nelson, Oscar Wilde, and others have said, we aren’t above the money. Stay well. And thanks from all of us on the Emma Lathen team.

  Deaver Brown, Publisher & Editor.

  www.simplymedia.com

  Chapter 1

  Fling Out the Banner!

  ABOVE ALL, Wall Street is power. The talk is of stocks and bonds, of contracts and bills of lading, of gold certificates, and wheat futures, but it is talk that sends fleets steaming to distant oceans, that determines the fate of new African governments, that closes mining camps in the Chibougamou. In the world’s great money market, power has forged massive canyons through which thousands of men and women daily hurry to work, hurry to lunch, hurry, hurry, hurry in the shadow of towers tall enough to defy the heavens. Depending upon your point of view, Wall Street is either awesomely impressive or appalling.

  No one has ever called it beautiful.

  John Putnam Thatcher, Senior Vice-President of the Sloan Guaranty Trust and, incidentally, a man who had sent plenty of tankers to the Sulu Sea in his day, paid the taxi driver and inspected his portion of Wall Street, which happened to be Exchange Place, with profound satisfaction. It had been turned an exceptionally dirty gray by low-lying November clouds. The chilled hordes streaming past the entrance to the Sloan were an unaesthetic spectacle. Nevertheless, Thatcher felt the real contentment that comes, so we are told, from the sight of an authentic work of art.

  “Which proves,” he told himself as he struggled into the Sloan’s lobby, “that it is all in the eye of the beholder. Morning, Billings.”

  “Good to have you back, Mr. Thatcher,” said Billings, with as much dignity as if he were still presiding over the magnificently begrilled oak elevator that had served executives in the old Sloan instead of a pneumatic pillbox.

  “Did you have a good trip? It was India, wasn’t it?”

  “Poona,” said Thatcher. “Yes, it was a good trip, but I’m glad to be back.”

  “I’m sure you are. Here we are, sir.”

  As he rode up to the sixth floor and the Trust Department, Thatcher considered the warmth in Billings’ voice. Was it possible that Billings too had been in Poona?

  Miss Corsa, as busy in his outer office as if Thatcher had never been away, had not visited Poona. She welcomed her employer back from foreign parts with her usual calm, then interestedly inspected the length of sheer golden silk he produced from his briefcase.

  “It’s a beautiful scarf, Mr. Thatcher. Thank you very much.”

  “Scarf?” Thatcher replied. “It’s a sari, Miss Corsa. I noticed that it enlivens an office considerably when the secretary wears something like that. I anticipate coming in one morning to find you looking like a bird of paradise.”

  Involuntarily Miss Corsa glanced again at the transparent shimmer of the silk. Then she carefully refolded it, stowed it in a drawer, and got down to business.

  “And I’ve clipped the articles in the Times, Mr. Thatcher. And the pictures . . .”

  “Miss Corsa, it is my intention to forget these past two weeks as rapidly as possible.”

  Miss Corsa ignored the interruption and made a mental note that foreign travel reinforced her employer’s regrettable tendency to levity. “Newsweek had a very good photograph of you in that furry hat. When you were up in the mountains.”

  “Furry hat!” he repeated irascibly, proceeding into his own office. Banking careers have drawbacks as well as compensations, but not until last week had John Putnam Thatcher added exotic headgear to the list.

  “Remind me to send a memo to the chairman this afternoon, will you, Miss Corsa?”

  It was the Chairman of the Board, George C. Lancer, who had put Thatcher into that furry hat. He prided himself on a statesmanlike view of the Sloan’s far-flung financial commitments, which currently included modest participation in a vast hydro-electric project some two hundred miles northeast of Poona. It was, Lancer pointed out, only fit and proper that the Sloan and the United States of America be represented at the opening ceremonies.

  “Certainly,” Thatcher had replied. “When do you . . .?”

  “Unfortunately, I’ll be representing the bank at the launching of a trawler fleet in Ghana,” Lancer had said with a straight face.

  Since Bradford Withers, the president of the Sloan, had accepted a luncheon invitation to the White House during the relevant period and the head of International Division was en route to a trade conference in Dubrovnik, it was John Putnam Thatcher who went to Poona, and to an endless round of functions centering on the importance of waterpower—including several religious observances—that culminated in an exceedingly uncomfortable trip to what should right
ly have been inaccessible mountain fastnesses. The motley crew of dignitaries accompanying him did not improve the situation.

  “Yes. I want to be sure to tell Lancer that the United States was represented by the ambassador, poor fish. And don’t let me forget to mention that the Russian technicians outnumbered the Indian officials. That will give International something to think about!”

  Miss Corsa shook her head disapprovingly, indicated the business at hand, tempered her welcome by pointing out that she had not expected him until the next day, which accounted for the disorder he found. Thatcher’s desk was a model of mathematical precision, then she withdrew.

  With a sigh of relief, Thatcher sank into his own chair, at his own desk. At long last, he had regained the peace and order of the Sloan that had sustained him through the worst moments in India—among which he was inclined to number his own ribbon-cutting remarks.

  Almost immediately, reality intruded. Whether from Billings or those members of the staff he had encountered in the hallway, but certainly not from Miss Corsa, news of Thatcher’s return roared through the sixth floor like a forest fire. Most of the sixth floor, it soon developed, had urgent need to consult him.

  Fittingly enough, Walter Bowman, Chief of the Research Section, was the first to receive tidings of his return, and lumbered in, ostensibly to welcome Thatcher back, actually to argue the merits of Northern Kansas Utilities which he hoped to present to next week’s Investment Committee. After this matter had been thrashed out, Bowman solicited Thatcher’s impression of the Sloan’s Paris branch, visited in passing.

  It was not high.

  “Just as I thought,” Bowman said. “Tell you what, John. I’ll send them a list of our reports, and ask for one of theirs. That way, we’ll find out what they’re doing—if they know.”

  “Clear it with International, Walter,” Thatcher replied. “And remember that Withers’ nephew is over there.”

  Bowman looked innocent as he heaved his great bulk out of the easy chair.

  “I’ll be tact itself, John. You know that. Well, you’ll want to get caught up so I’ll go. By the way, I thought India was hot. Why were you wearing that fur hat in the pictures?”

  “Oh, take your tactful self out of here.”

  This set the pattern. One by one, Thatcher’s subordinates cajoled their way past Miss Corsa to lay their problems on the desk of their returned chief.

  “I thought Charlie Trinkam was supposed to be keeping the Trust Department running,” said Thatcher aloud as he sped Kenneth Nicolls on his way. “And why is young Nicolls looking so tired?”

  “I understand that he’s been working nights,” Miss Corsa replied, depositing a mountain of correspondence on his desk.

  “Splendid,” said Thatcher brutally.

  “He’s helping to build a cooperative nursery school in Brooklyn Heights,” she continued. “Mr. Nicolls is doing the cabinetwork.”

  “Another illusion shattered,” Thatcher commented. “Miss Corsa, do you think you could manage to keep the rest of the staff out of here . . . .?”

  “John! Talk about timing!”

  Radiating enthusiasm, Charlie Trinkam stood in the doorway. A man devoted to milking life of the enjoyment it held, he was also a fine trust officer, if unorthodox in method. The unalloyed pleasure in his voice made both Thatcher and Miss Corsa look up with surprise, but Trinkam advanced into the room like a cat stalking a canary. Just beyond him was Everett Gabler, the oldest and primmest of Thatcher’s trust officers.

  Thatcher narrowed his eyes. Not only was Everett Gabler a born fusser, he was also section chief of Rails and Industrials. This meant that, professionally as well as temperamentally, he was invariably at sword’s points with Trinkam (Utilities).

  Yet here he was, happily polishing his glasses.

  “Well, well, well! It is good to see you back, John.” He glanced at Trinkam. “You know, Charlie, I think this solves all our problems nicely. Very, very nicely.”

  The normal crises that arose when Trinkam assumed nominal authority during Thatcher’s absences could never have effected this rapprochement. For a moment Thatcher studied Trinkam and Gabler, both beaming at him with uncharacteristic heartiness, then decided to tread very warily.

  “That will do, Miss Corsa. Yes, I got back a day early.”

  “Great!” said Trinkam.

  Thatcher said nothing.

  “Have a good trip?” Everett Gabler inquired after a pause.

  “Excellent,” said Thatcher.

  It was noteworthy that Charlie Trinkam did not inquire about Paris.

  Thatcher let his eyes stray to his heaped in-box and saw Trinkam and Gabler exchange conspiratorial glances. Charlie cleared his throat.

  “Ah . . . John, the reason we’re glad that you got back a little early is that we’ve got a problem on our hands.”

  “Nothing serious. Things have been going very smoothly,” Gabler interpolated.

  He was a man in whose jaundiced view things never went smoothly.

  “Yes?” Thatcher said courteously.

  “You know Schuyler & Schuyler?” Trinkam continued.

  Unlimited patience was not John Putnam Thatcher’s forte. His voice grew testy. “Of course I know Schuyler & Schuyler, Charlie. Will you two get to the point, or get out and let me do some work?”

  Neither Trinkam nor Gabler budged.

  “Had the rumors about Schuyler & Schuyler started before you left?” Gabler asked.

  “Rumors? No, I haven’t heard a thing. But they can’t be in trouble,” Thatcher replied, interested despite himself. Schuyler & Schuyler was a small, well-regarded brokerage firm. Old Nat Schuyler, one of the founders, still ran it with an autocratic hand that guaranteed Schuyler & Schuyler’s capital reserves were always well above the required minimum.

  “Not the kind of trouble you’re thinking about,” Trinkam assured him soberly. “No, for the last week or so there’s been a lot of talk. Schuyler & Schuyler want to take in a new partner and get him a seat on the Exchange.”

  “So?”

  “He’s a Black man,” said Everett Gabler quietly.

  Thatcher raised his eyebrows. Only someone who had spent almost forty years on Wall Street, someone who knew the Stock Exchange, the investment banks, the great law firms and the brokerage houses could immediately appreciate how much talk there must have been.

  He smiled wryly.

  “It’s Nat Schuyler all over,” Charlie said admiringly. “A real damn-your-eyes aristo, isn’t he?”

  “With a green thumb for money,” Thatcher added. “If he can pull it off, it will mean a lot of business.”

  “He’s a smart old cookie,” Trinkam said. “But that’s a mighty big ‘if.’ ”

  John Thatcher sat lost in thought for a moment. Then he asked, “Who’s the man?”

  Gabler pursed his lips. “That’s it. For a while there were a lot of wild rumors . . .”

  “I’m sure there were,” Thatcher replied, amused.

  “He turns out to be somebody named Edward Parry. Walter tells me that his family set up Savings and Loan Associations in Atlanta and Richmond. Worth millions . . .”

  Thatcher tilted his chair appreciatively. Not only could he see the furor this must have caused on the Street, he could see the furor growing and growing. He could make a fairly good guess at Nathaniel Schuyler’s frame of mind, the man had always played the enfant terrible,and he obviously proposed to continue doing so even though he must be near eighty. And with some clarity, John Putnam Thatcher could see the shoals looming up before the Board of Governors of the New York Stock Exchange.

  “But for the life of me,” he said aloud, settling his chair, “I cannot see why this should create problems for the Sloan.”

  Again Everett Gabler exchanged a look with Charlie Trinkam. “Schuyler & Schuyler sent invitations to most of the big firms on the Street—’To Meet Edward Parry,’ “he said. “There’s a reception this afternoon.”

  “The old devil,” sa
id Thatcher, after he had considered this, “I wonder if he can pull it off. Well, if anybody can, it’s Nat Schuyler. I take it that he’s sent an invitation to the Sloan, and you two think you’re going to saddle me with it.”

  “Not quite,” said Gabler gently.

  Simultaneously Trinkam said, “Hell, no, it’s worse than that!”

  Gabler proceeded:

  “Bradford Withers has accepted the invitation. The chairman has . . . er . . . urgently requested that Charlie or I . . . er . . . accompany Withers . . . to be sure that there won’t be any statements . . . uh . . . from the Sloan that aren’t what we would want.”

  Speechlessly, John Putnam Thatcher stared at him. Bradford Withers’ role as president of the Sloan was largely ceremonial and, as such, ideally suited to a man whose outstanding characteristic was that he never saw what the trouble was. This rendered him liable to utter publicly comments that were hair-raising in their grand disregard of implications. Understandably, it was house policy at the Sloan to keep a weather eye on Bradford Withers in any situation other than the severely social.

  “Ev and I don’t want to do it,” Charlie pointed out reasonably. “And you know, John, you’re the only one who can control Brad.” He paused to let this sink in, before adding, “And this could get very tricky.”

  John Putnam Thatcher bowed his head, acknowledging the truth, however unpalatable. In so doing, he caught sight of his wristwatch.

  It had taken precisely two hours and fourteen minutes at his desk to transform Poona into a haven of peace and quiet.

  Chapter 2

  Once to Every Man and Nation

  TO THE UNTUTORED EYE, all large Wall Street functions seem to be repeat performances played by the same cast. The familiar faces from the big banks, brokerage houses, and law firms are everywhere. But in slight fluctuations of personnel, in minute shifts in representation, the experienced eye can read its own lesson.

  If, without a word of warning, some astounding feat of levitation had wafted Thatcher straight from the Jockey Club in Poona to the dark-paneled room overlooking Pine Street where he and Bradford Withers found themselves later that day, he would have taken one look, sniffed suspiciously and immediately realized that he was attending a Very Special Occasion.