Murder Makes the Wheels Go Round Read online

  “Here, let me get that,” Riley offered. He fumbled around on the other end of the bedspread. “Wahl must be a very different type to work with.”

  “He is much nicer,” she agreed readily. “Grumpier but human; of course he’s more nervous, but that’s only natural. He was over in Trucks for years. And he isn’t a front office type. Then it didn’t help any to get an acting appointment. And having people come back and start thumbing through his files was just about the last--” Her voice trailed off in sudden confusion.

  “So Jensen was combing the division files,” Riley mused speculatively. “You know, I would have thought he knew everything there was to know about Plantagenet.”

  “It wasn’t just Plantagenet. It was all the files.”

  “He might have been trying to catch up on what happened while he was away.” After a short pause he continued with a deliberate provocation. “Of course you didn’t notice the time period he was interested in.”

  “You’re wrong on both counts,” she was while grinding her teeth.

  “So he was going back through last year. What a situation!” He gave a low whistle of appreciation. “He must have been dead serious about finding the tipster.”

  “He was serious about everything,” she said shortly.

  The DOJ gives good training. Riley knew better than to press his advantage. For a few seconds he was silent as they flapped and folded the laundry, untidily the bedspread lay in her basket in a precise yellow rectangle. When he spoke, he chose his words with care. He had long since realized that MM regarded the activities of the mysterious tipster with great shame. “Yes, I can see how things were easier under Jensen. And of course he was primed to be your next president. So that added to his prestige.”

  But there were limits to her support of her late employer. “Well, certainly everyone expected him to become president. But you know, I’m not so sure he would have been as good a choice as Mr. Krebbel. For one thing, he was never interested in compacts. He’d been in Plantagenet so long he wasn’t well-rounded. And then he could never handle people well. Mr. Krebbel is wonderful at that.” Her voice had warmed with enthusiasm as she went along. “After the trial I didn’t think anyone could organize the front office again. But he had everything running smoothly by the end of the year. Somehow he managed to make everyone feel optimistic, as if the worst was over and it was going to be better from then on. And this last month he’s had to smooth down both Mr. Jensen and Mr. Wahl, and he’s tried to keep Mr. Dunn from nosing around. He always tries to be tactful, which a lot of bosses don’t worry about. And,” she concluded, bestowing the final accolade, “he never blames the secretaries. He knows we can’t do anything about it.”

  Riley rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. Then he decided to opt for bluntness. “What was Dunn nosing around for? Did he want to see the same things Jensen was interested in?”

  “Well, naturally he was interested in who did the tipping too. He--” Susan’s voice trailed off thoughtfully. “That’s funny. I never thought about that before. It is so natural to think of him as Jensen’s shadow. You know that’s what they called him here. But he is not interested in the same files; he was always trying to get into this year’s files.”

  Her dark eyes widened.in speculation. “It wasn’t only Plantagenet either. I know Eileen was practically in tears when he sneaked Lancaster budget material off her desk during her lunch. She went to Krebbel about it. She was sure Dunn photocopied it. Krebbel was wonderful according to her. That’s what I mean about him. Said it wasn’t’ her fault and not to be upset. MM didn’t expect her to have to guard against that sort of thing.”

  “Sure, Krebbel’s wonderful,” Riley said sourly.

  Susan was piqued. “He is. He treats us as if we are people; in the front office that is something.”

  “It is easy for him to be agreeable now. He’s on top.”

  “That shows how prejudiced you are. He’s always been that way. Last year he was just controller and very nice to me. I rushed out to my car one night and threw packages into it. Then I went back for my gloves. When I got back I thought my car was gone. I had mixed up his Drake with mine. He didn’t know what to do with 20 shamrock cupcakes I had for that night. But the next day he brought in a cake with an inscription, ’For the Day after St. Patrick’s.’ Wasn’t that sweet,” she concluded.

  “Just grand.”

  Susan signed and looked around for inspiration. “If those green and white shorts are yours you better empty the dryer. There done.”

  Riley swiveled around in surprise. Conversation with Susan was impairing his professional efficiency. In the space of 15 minutes he had become jealous of Krebbel and lost his internal timing device. He marched over to his laundry. After a moment, Susan joined him. “Here,” she said, “that’s no way to do it. Everything will get wrinkled.” She reached into his untidy pile, abstracted a T shirt, and reduced it to submission.

  He cleared his throat, settled himself on both feet, and started a speech. “It is all very well for you to blow up every time someone speaks slightingly of your precious MM, but you have to admit that there are some very queer things going on there.”

  “There are queer things going on in every company,” she retorted.

  “Not the kind of queerness that ends up in somebody stealing a gun and shooting.” She was swinging a sock lightheartedly and he grabbed it from her, “Will you be serious. This is no joking matter.”

  “Yes it is very serious,” she said obediently. “And

  I really don’t know what is going on. Mr. Jensen was easy to figure out. But Mr. Wahl is not. And Mr. Dunn is creeping around. He was always a snoop but now there’s an intensity about him that almost frightens me.” Her voice was grave. “It is as if he himself were scared stiff of what he’s doing, but determined to go through with it.” Susan shuddered. Riley put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” a harried mother said, clutching a small child who in turn clutched an ice cream cone. “Would either of you have two nickels for a dime?”

  “I’ll see,” said Susan, reaching for her bag.

  “Harry, watch that cone,” said his mother while waiting. “Don’t let it drip on the gentleman’s trousers.”

  Riley reddening slightly removed his hand from Susan’s shoulder and his trousers from Harry’s reach.

  Susan said, “I’m afraid I can’t find any, Mr. Riley?”

  He found one and she said, “Thank you so much. They only take nickels for the bleach.”

  Her departure left them staring at each other with some constraint. To break it up Susan poked her head into the dryer to find a missing sock, saying, “I knew it must be somewhere.”

  “Now Susan, I’m sorry about--”

  She interrupted him to say, “Mr. Riley, if you are going to call me Susan perhaps I had better know your first name.”

  Silence.

  “Well,” she challenged.

  “It is Fabian Xerxes,” said Riley stiffly. “Father was a socialist.”

  Susan was thoughtful for a moment as she patted the last of the pile into place. Then she giggled slightly. Fabian Xerxes raised an affronted eyebrow.

  She sobered and said, “It is a respectable name,” in a passable imitation of his own voice.

  And then he went blank before grinning. A dimple appeared on her face. He reached out a long arm and drew a laundry cart next to his own.

  “A drink? Dinner? Movie?” He suggested.

  “I think there is something I should tell you first.”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Susan B. Anthony Price. Mother was a feminist.”

  Chapter 9

  Hairpin Turns

  Happiness can flower amidst hamburgers and washing machines. At the moment John had no inkling of this, of course, but he was living proof that caviar canapés and 18 year old scotch do not guarantee freedom from appalling discomfort. The only thing to be said for his present circumstances was that Mrs
. Holzinger had solved the problem of Audrey Wahl in the most efficient way possible, by not inviting her.

  But this exclusion could have been based on grounds other than personal. John, always sensitive to atmosphere, realized within a few minutes after his entrance that the economical Mrs. Holzinger was making her dinner party serve more than one purpose. On the one hand, she was establishing her right to entertain John as a company hostess. On the other, she was gathering together the remaining outs, namely her husband and the Dunns, and any ins who might be prevailed upon to receive them back into the MM fold.

  Lionel French was the most significant member of this second group. The Board Chairman treated his hostess with a playful deference which confirmed the suspicions born in John’s mind up the long driveway leading to the Holzinger home in Grosse Pointe Farms. That driveway suggested broad acres. Delicate probing confirmed his diagnosis.

  “Di Holzinger. Oh yes, she’s one of the Chicago Bredons. Meat packing family, you know.”

  Thatcher did indeed. The Bredons had a chapter to themselves in every standard history of the great American Fortunes. Even a remote collateral would have an impressive net worth, as Di clearly had.

  Then surely the Holzingers were in no way dependent upon Michigan Motors, he suggested to Lincoln Hauser.

  “Not financially, no. But money isn’t everything,” he reminded Thatcher reproachfully. Clearly some diplomacy was in order despite his internal grin that he was glad Hauser was gone from the Sloan, as Linc continued about how money wasn’t everything, something one was perhaps inclined to forget when immersed in the parochial concerns of Wall Street. John heard himself saying that banking did tend to emphasize the sordid side of life. But here in Detroit, at the mainspring of American industrial development, and fortunately Hauser cut him off before he went on any further with what John considered increasingly absurd comments.

  “Exactly,” beamed Hauser. Out here it is achievement that counts. Not how much money you have.”

  John somehow kept a straight face. He distracted himself from his absurdities by using his recent knowledge of the native habitat of automotive executives to examine the Holzinger residence. It might have been the period pieces, casually placed and so well maintained to imply irrefutable authenticity. But John knew he was not knowledgeable enough about this sort of thing to respond instinctively to its presence. It must be something else. Of course, no wall to wall carpeting, just the faded majesty of slightly faded Oriental rugs and the polished gleam of dark parquetry, bespeaking ample domestic help. He scanned the room further. Unless he was mistaken, the big rug under the sofa grouping was an old Kirman, the Queen Anne library table rested on an Ispaham, and the Bechstein in the music corner was set off magnificently by the grandeur of a Bokhara. And it was very unlikely that he was mistaken. His late wife had long been a lover and connoisseur of fine rugs.

  Meanwhile, Hauser continued explaining that their hostess was a simple toiler in the vineyard of industrial progress. “You couldn’t go further wrong than to think Di is just another parasite. Why you should have seen her when Buck came up with the Drake. She was starry-eyed. That’s what she wants. A sense of accomplishment.”

  John felt obliged to demur at last, “Offhand, you know, one would expect it to be her husband who had the sense of accomplishment.”

  “Ah,” purred Hauser slowly with the air of a man springing an extraordinary subtlety. “But Di was the woman behind the man behind the compact. Just think of it!”

  John’s eye glazed over slightly as the tidal wave swept over him. Dimly he distinguished references to pioneer women, to the effete East, and, if he could believe his ears, to “here in the West where a man could breathe.” He wondered if Houser had the remotest conception of American geography. Any minute he’d be hearing about the Father of Waters. “And,” Hauser concluded his eulogy, “Di’s not the woman to throw her weight around. She always makes it clear that at MM she’s only operating as Buck’s wife.”

  John was left to speculate what she made clear when in downtown Detroit not to mention Chicago where her family’s great wealth and prominence was located. At that moment plain straightforward Di put her hand on French’s arm to attract his attention as the Chairman inclined his head.

  “I was just letting Thatcher know how highly we all think of Di,” Hauser explained to Buck who had just joined them to announce the imminence of dinner. Buck’s conviviality faded when he saw Di and the Chairman across the room. His cheeks reddened as he set down his drink and said abstractly, “You’ll show Mr. Thatcher the way won’t you Linc?” and bore down upon his wife.

  It would be interesting, John thought, to know how much of Di’s modesty in the auto world could be attributed to unexpected displays of marital authority by her husband.

  The dinner gathering was not large enough to disintegrate into splinter groups. The conversation was general and it soon became apparent, so was exposure to Orin Dunn truculence. Although John as the guest of honor had an inalienable claim to the seat on his hostess’s right, she had put the Chairman on her left. The elevated position of the Frenches was reinforced by placing Mrs. French, a dowager of the old school, next to her host, where she could enjoy the dubious distinction of receiving Buck’s confidences on life and times behind bars. While a maid circulated vegetables in heavy Victorian silver dishes, John’s hostess started a mundane conversation concerning Detroit amenities, the climatic extremes of the Great Lakes, and the inexplicable failure of the Moiseyev danders to stop on their last tour. But no conversation centering on Detroit can long avoid the car industry. When John’s attention was momentarily diverted by Mrs. Dunn, Di used the interval to introduce the subject of displaced car executives. 2 returning parolees, summarily dismissed by their employer in a blaze of righteous indignation, had just been hired by a smaller car company, and they had taken lots of trade secrets with them.

  “Shocking,” rumbled French, loudly enough to draw his host’s attention.

  What’s that?” Buzz asked sharply, abandoning Mrs. French in the middle of a stately anecdote about the conductor’s behavior at a spirited performance of Capriccio Española by the Detroit Symphony.

  “Lionel,” said Di placidly, “is disturbed about Gleason and Tom Halliday.”

  Buck was not sympathetic. “There’s nothing to get excited about,” he growled. “The boys have to take care of themselves. Nobody’s got any right to say they shouldn’t. Heck, we’re all in the same spot.”

  His wife’s lips tightened slightly, but before she could reply, Orin Dunn took the floor. “Who says we’re all in the same spot? That’s not the way it looks from where I sit. Was Jensen in the same spot?”

  “Now, now. De Mortuis and all that,” French said.

  “De Mortuis, hell. Jensen steps off that train and he’s in Krebbel’s office for 2 hours. I want to talk to Frank too. Do I get in? We got here over a week ago and he still hasn’t found time to see me,” as his eyes glittered resentfully.

  Hauser, exercising his infallible instinct for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, promptly poured oil on the fire. “You’re forgetting Ray’s position aren’t you? Orin old boy?” he said in a spirit of bright helpfulness. “After all he is senior management. It’s only natural that Frank wanted to talk to him right away.”

  “Senior management,” Dunn shrilled. “He was so senior he was responsible for the whole price fixing mess. How do you think I got mixed up in it? He put the bite on me for sales. Then when the pressure was on he squealed like a pig. First he railroaded me into this fix, then he sent me up the river.”

  John pondered the influence of 6 months’ confinement on Dunn’s vocabulary while other faces registered disapproval.

  “Ray did not...er...squeal,” said French reproachfully.

  “The hell he didn’t. If Jensen had his way, I would have taken the rap alone. My God, when the Feds first came around--”

  Di cut in as the hostess, “Now Orin...”

  But
Dunn was in no mood to be shushed. “Do you know what Jensen said to me last week? He said his future plans at Plantagenet didn’t include me. He said,” as his voice cracked alarmingly, “he said my jail record would be a handicap.”

  “Now that,” Buck said weightily, “is just about the limit.”

  Orin laughed harshly. “Don’t think I’m through yet. Oh sure it would be convenient for everyone if I shut up like a good boy. Do you expect me to forget that if it hadn’t been for those photostats of the code I was going to get thrown to the wolves all by myself. Do you expect me to take that lying down? Well, I didn’t work for Jensen for 5 years without learning a thing or two. They’ve got some surprises coming to them.” His voice began to rise ominously.

  Buck was not a man easily shaken by incipient hysteria but the dinner party was deprived of his views; after some preliminary throat clearing Lionel French began an address in his best PR platform manner.

  “We all know Frank is very fair. Like everyone else at Michigan Motors, he is fully aware of the contribution to the company’s welfare made by the timely introduction of the compact. Furthermore, he is always interested in hearing the views of others, and of an opportunity to thrash out any differences of opinion which may exist. I have every confidence that any decision he may reach will reflect the best interests of the company and the public.”

  This pontifical enunciation would have had wider appeal, John reflected, if any of the interested parties had been concerned with the problems of either the company or the public. But even Di looked unpersuaded while Orin was openly rebellious.