Murder Makes the Wheels Go Round Page 3

  “For goodness sake, leave it alone.”

  “Well then,” continued Krebbel with unimpaired calm, “what about an announcement?”

  The Chairman frowned and pursed his lips. Krebbel waited. Finally French said, “Look Frank, perhaps we should come to some arrangement with Ray when he gets out. He’s very, ah, informed about the company. And he did go to jail without telling the government anything they didn’t already know.” This produced no reply. Much against his will he was forced to be more direct, “Do you think Ray is likely to make trouble if we fire him now?”

  “He’ll try.” Krebbel didn’t look disturbed by the prospect.

  French shook his head and went on, “Then take Buck. You never can tell what he’ll come up with. After all he did develop the Drake.”

  Krebbel duly considered Holzinger, “As you say it doesn’t pay to underestimate Buck.”

  French stood up. “That’s just it. I tell you Frank, we are going to have to hold up the announcement,” he said decisively. “The board will need more time to...think things through.”

  The president looked at him without sympathy. French and the Board had been taking more time for six months now. But Krebbel expertly knew when to push and when not to do so. He assented to French’s decision without protest.

  At the door the Chairman hesitated and voiced a new worry, “Frank, you know Jensen can be quite difficult. You don’t suppose he might be tempted to go back to the DOJ with information to implicate Stuart or anyone else?”

  He only got cold comfort in return. “Let him,” Krebbel said evenly to conclude their meeting.

  Chapter 3

  FOB Detroit

  By the second week in May, MM had still made no public announcement of its plans for its jailbird executives. Nobody had identified MM’s informer. But descending on Detroit with varying degrees of enthusiasm were 5 men determined to dispel these clouds of uncertainty.

  The first to arrive was Jensen, until last October head of MM’s big Plantagenet Division. He had brushed off the reporters after he left jail on Monday and proceeded directly to MM Headquarters. Within 20 minutes he was in conference with Krebbel. He did not emerge for over an hour. The grapevine did not know what had been said. It did know that after leaving Krebbel, Jensen had gone immediately to his old office, currently occupied by Ed Wahl, acting Plantagenet division manager. A secretary witnessed their encounter.

  “I want to thank you personally, Ed,” said Jensen.

  “What for,” Wahl said cautiously.

  “Why for minding the store while I was gone.”

  The grapevine reported that Jensen was smiling coldly and Wahl was pale at the end of the interview. The more knowledgeable portions of the grapevine, the secretaries who had been at MM for more than 5 years, whispered one further item: Ray had not bothered first to go home and see his wife.

  Next to make the trip from jail to Detroit was Orin Dunn, Ray’s erstwhile assistant. More domestically oriented than his superior, he went from the train directly to his home in Bloomfield Hills. His wife had firmly taken the position that Orin was a persecuted innocent, cooed sympathetically, and lacerated his sensitivities by her total inability to comprehend their problem. “Look, can’t you understand?” he was shouting. “What if they don’t take me back? I’m too young to be a has been.”

  The third, Buck Holzinger, was met by his wife at the Federal prison gates. One look at him told Diane Holzinger that he was going to be difficult. Accordingly she was very attentive to him on their drive to their Grosse Point Farms’ house.

  She had held her fire until home and then said, “Buck, we have to face facts.” Di was 45 but looked 10 years younger. “You’re going to have to fight to get back into the company,” she concluded.

  Buck assumed his place at her side. “It we are going to face facts we might as well face the fact that I’m through. It’s hard but there it is,” he paused and continued looking out at the yard, “I like the new fence.”

  His wife replied with emphasis. “MM has announced nothing. There’s a lot of talk they’ll take Ray back...”

  “So?” Buck said while admiring his front hall with undisguised pleasure.

  “You’re not going to take that lying down,” Di told him. “Orin and you will have to spike his guns. There’s nothing Ray would like better than keeping you out in the cold.”

  “Not much I can do about it,” he said absently. “Good to see the old place.”

  Di gripped her purse with white knuckles, “It is Krebbel who counts now. Ray’s probably already gone up to see him by now. You have to do something about it, Buck.”

  From the entranceway to the living room he looked back at her and said, “It means a lot to you doesn’t it Di?”

  “Yes it does.”

  The last visitors came 2 days later from Wall Street, not from a Federal prison. They represented Waymark-Sims, which was not surprising since Hugh was an incorrigible optimist and the Sloan, which was a tribute to Walter Bowman’s tenacity.

  Since the Committee meeting Bowman had labored on valiantly. For weeks an unremitting barrage of MM boosting material rained down from his Research department on the rest of the Sloan. This was topped off one notable afternoon when Thatcher returned to his office to find a two foot model of the new MM Lancaster. Miss Corsa said, “Mr. Bowman said you might be interested, and to quote him, ’Beauty bred to service.’”

  Thatcher retorted, “Send this half-breed back to Research, Miss Corsa, and tell Bowman that I am convinced there is no future in cars without running boards.”

  Undaunted, Walter persevered and somehow convinced the Committee they would lose nothing by a tentative exploration of MM. Thatcher never knew how he did it. Then, leaving for Detroit in well-merited triumph, Walter broke his left ankle leaving a taxi at LaGuardia.

  “For a man who has been littering my desk with car information I regard that as inexcusably clumsy,” John said upon learning of the mishap, as he continued, “With Bowman in traction who goes off on this wild goose chase?”

  Miss Corsa interceded, “I’ll send flowers and do you want to talk to Mr. Gabler?”

  But Everett was tied up negotiating credits; Charlie was reorganizing the liaison between the Trust and Collateral Departments, a move necessitated by the discovery that the innocents in Collateral Loans were lending money on securities the Trust Department had long since decided were worthless. Sinclair was in DC testifying; Blazdell was in Iraq and Innes had the mumps.

  “Mumps.” John repeated sourly. “What about Nicholls?”

  “Too junior,” pronounced Miss Corsa.

  “Nonsense. It will do him good.” But Thatcher said it weakly and knew he had to bow to her higher realism. As a result, on Wednesday it was John Putnam Thatcher himself who strode into the MM palatial lobby.

  Arnold Berman, looking more melancholy than ever, performed the introductions. There was Glen Madsen, tall, rugged, and generally forbidding, MM’s Planning and Research Director; he was the senior MM executive assembled to greet Berman and Thatcher. He shook hands vigorously, introduced his associates, and allowed one to describe their domestic arrangements made at the nearby Telegraph Motel. Madsen was masterfully shepherding Berman and Thatcher upstairs when their path was blocked.

  A young woman stood before the elevator clutching a folder oblivious of bystanders as she scowled at the young man facing her. The couple exchanged hostilities while assorted secretaries peered around the decorative foliage and visiting car dealers swiveled their heads. “You’re not seeing these reports until I’ve typed them and sent them to Mr. Wahl or Mr. Jensen,” she said hotly.

  Thatcher heard someone whisper, “Glen, maybe we should take the stairs.”

  “Listen Miss Price,” her opponent retorted, “I know you were Jensen’s secretary and now you’re Wahl’s so you’re willing to fight all the way for Plantagenet. But I know as well as you do that Jensen has been keeping out of sight since he got back Monday. Either you g
ive me that report or we check with Wahl...oh...there’s Madsen.”

  Madsen swore under his breath, and then said, “What’s the trouble, Riley?” as a twittering subordinate made a heroic attempt to divert Berman and Thatcher from the scene by describing the new tie-in advertising for the Burpee Rose Plantagenet.

  Naturally finding the conflict more interesting than roses Berman and Thatcher only gave perfunctory responses. Miss Price and Madsen had lowered their voices; Riley had not. “Miss Price doesn’t seem to know that our court order covers current records at Plantagenet,” he responded pugnaciously.

  Involuntarily Berman repeated, “Court order?” His MM companion doggedly talked about Burpee roses.

  Madsen wasted no time. “All right. Just give Riley any records he wants” and turned to join the others.

  Miss Price had her loyalties, “Don’t you think I should get Mr. Jensen to OK them first, Mr. Madsen?”

  “Give him the records,” Madsen barked, gesturing the guests to the elevator.

  As they passed Miss Price, she thrust her folder forward. “All right,” she spat. “Read it. But read it now. Mr. Wahl has to have it this afternoon.” Desperately the MM rose fancier stabbed the elevator button. It took several moments to arrive during which Berman and Thatcher unashamedly eavesdropped on Riley, dictating to himself as he jotted down notes.

  “Oh, the Tuesday Work Report. Let’s see. Two cutters dismissed for brawling in the fender assembly men’s room. Check with Thad and Grievance Committee. Guard Stanislaus Novotny’s gun stolen...gun stolen! Why are people stealing guns at Plantagenet, Miss Price?”

  “To shoot snoopers,” she replied venomously.

  “Reported this to the police?” he asked sternly.

  “Of course.”

  As they were wafted upward Berman cleared his throat, “What’s this court order, Glen?”

  “Riley’s from the DOJ. He’s ensuring that MM complies with the cease and desist order.” When neither Berman nor Thatcher commented, Madsen dropped his belligerence and added, “It’s a darn nuisance you know. Only a formality. Around here price fixing is over for good.”

  A general murmur of assent attended this MM line. Thatcher was to hear it repeated almost immediately in the presidential suite. During the preliminaries John inspected the new president with interest. In contrast to Madsen, Krebbel was middle-aged and colorless. But rimless glasses and a receding hairline did not impair his aura of competence. He referred to his predecessors, and the current Chairman, in terms leaving no doubt he was master in his own house. Nor did a question about price fixing embarrass him.

  “It was a big problem. But I can assure you we’ve solved it,” he said with calm finality. “Now, before you talk to our financial people, you’ll want to inspect one of our plants. Neither Berman nor John was discourteous enough to disagree, although each had toured Willow Run and one assembly line was much like another in their long experience.

  “Glen,” Krebbel continued, “what about calling Ed Wahl. They can go through Plantagenet right after lunch.” Madsen nodded his agreement.

  “We’ve got a Super Plantagenet we are building to the exact expectations of a Saudi Sheik,” Krebbel stated. Then noting John’s look of polite inquiry, said, “Ed Wahl’s the man directing Plantagenet. Sorry I can’t join you for lunch.”

  As this brief encounter ended, John decided MM was going to provide more food for thought than he had expected. Since MM had made no public statements about Jensen, Ed Wahl was “directing” Plantagenet not division manager. He saw that Berman had also registered this not so fine distinction.

  After giving almost imperceptible nods of command to waiting secretaries, Madsen led his guests to the executive dining room for lunch where the director of technical services and assistant director of marketing research were waiting for them. As the waitress produced butterscotch rolls, Madsen asked a question about QC to get the ball rolling. Unfortunately the technical services director failed to field the ball. His attention had been diverted by nearby bellowing. “Buck’s back,” said the director. “A great storyteller.”

  “Yes,” said John cordially. Incredibly Buck’s story seemed to combine disc brakes and a bawdy comment.

  The director said, “I see that jail did not hamper his spirits. Buck says he met some great guys in jail.” Madsen gave in as the director went on.

  John interjected, “What does Ray Jensen say about jail?” That did it. Thereafter the topic of conversation was restricted to turbines.

  “Now,” announced Madsen, “we are going over to look at Plantagenet.” The technical director and market research assistant director detached themselves from the party with military precision. Their replacements struck John as identical in name, position, and general appearance. The regrouped party then proceeded outdoors to a chauffeur driven Plantagenet Royale. In 3 minutes, feeling as if he were being swept along on an assembly line, John found himself ushered into a sprawling factory complex where MM apparently produced its high priced line, the Plantagenet. The move of only 1 mile was farther away in spirit as their lobby was cinderblock utilitarian versus headquarter palatial.

  “This is where they steal guns,” John pointed out to Berman.

  Arnie, never particularly ebullient, had been depressed by lunch and the turbines, and said, “I don’t blame them.” The visitors’ mood was now set.

  A welcoming committee met them. Krebbel reappeared. He led the way to the receptionist as he said he hoped they had had a useful and informative lunch, and then said, “Mr. Wahl and Mr. Jensen please.”

  The phone only produced Wahl; Jensen could not be located. Madsen and Krebbel remained expressionless while the other MM people exchanged glances among themselves.

  “Ah, here’s Ed,” said one. Wahl, who lumbered out almost immediately was cut from a different pattern than his fellow executives. Clearly more of a rough diamond than whiz kid, John concluded accurately. As with everyone in Detroit he shared a touching, if misplaced, belief that everyone shared a detailed interest in cars.

  “You will want to see the Super Plantagenet we just built for the Sheik,” he declared. “Mabel, if you find Mr. Jensen tell him we are downstairs,” and they were off down a steep flight of concrete stairs.

  “There she is,” beamed Wahl, “The most luxurious car ever made, if I say so myself.” An incredible expanse of tawny bronze enamel that approached cruising yacht proportions stood before them. There was a polite admiration of them since bankers are rarely impressed by shiny objects and, in fact, tend to be wary of them.

  Wahl took no notice of their disdain and enthusiastically shouted, “Here, look at this,” as he was throwing open a huge rear door to reveal an imposing display of genuine leopard skin. Leaning agilely inside despite being a bulky man, he pressed a button and promptly a small teak bar with gold bottles and an ice tray glided out of an arm rest while the strains of a popular song filled the backseat.

  “When do we ship her, Ed?” Krebbel asked.

  “Tomorrow morning we are trucking her to New York. The Arabs arranged ocean freight. I hope they know how to tie her down securely,” as he patted the Plantagenet’s satin flanks lovingly.

  Madsen added his congratulations with a glance to his watch to indicate the tour was moving on.

  “That’s right,” said Krebbel starting for the door. “We want everyone to make the cocktail hour on time.”

  “Cocktail party? John said apprehensively.

  “You’ll want to meet our people,” said Krebbel in a leap of optimism. “Too bad Jensen didn’t turn up; I asked Orin to tell him you’d be here. Go ahead Glen; I can’t join you but I’ll see you later this evening.” With this Krebbel departed as did the other junior executives leaving just Arnie, John, Madsen, and Wahl.

  “I can see MM believes in organization,” John said caustically, with a nod from Arnie. Just then Wahl pulled open the factory metal doors they were approaching and shattering pandemonium broke upon their ears. “Don’t
worry,” Wahl bellowed. “You’ll get used to it,” which proved to be a constant MM refrain.

  “Terrible noise, isn’t it?” 4 hours later the noise in question was not the rumble of assembly lines, the whir of metal grinders, or the explosion of stamping presses but a genteel din at the Bloomfield Hills Open Hunt Club.

  “Yes,” John said politely to his companion, a middle-aged woman with disorderly gray hair. She had attached herself to him as he had escaped from 2 Engineering Department zealots. “You are that big banker from New York?” she said while hooking a large martini from a passing waiter.

  John admitted he was, looking around for escape, missing her next words. “I beg your pardon?” “I said things are awful at MM.” The lady was slurring her words and said, “It’s that louse Jensen.” Then she teetered back on her heels and blinked owlishly into the light. John’s stubborn silence did not deter her. Possibly, he thought, she was used to her companions being dumb with embarrassment, as she continued on relentlessly, “It would be just like them to give him back his job. Why doesn’t he just drop dead?”

  Another woman, well dressed, scrupulously groomed, favored him with a smooth social smile, and turned to his companion and said, “Audrey,” as she went on, “I am Diane Holzinger, Mr. Thatcher,” she announced graciously. “Have you been introduced to Mrs. Wahl?”

  John smiled and was about to say something polite but Mrs. Wahl was impolite with her civilities and said, “Well, Di, how does it feel to have your husband out of jail?”

  By not so much as a flicker of an eyelash Di said with nothing more than indulgent tolerance for the rather drunk Mrs. Wahl, “It’s wonderful to have him home again,” and she went on more broadly shifting the ground, “Being married to a business executive is an adventurous career, Mr. Thatcher. You have to be ready for anything.”