Murder Makes the Wheels Go Round Read online

  “That’s fine,” he snarled. “So he takes into account that the compact was a good thing--and maybe even the sales of the Plantagenet too--and then he decides it is in the best interests of the company to kick us out. I suppose that’s expected to satisfy us.”

  “That won’t happen,” prophesied Di. “Not if it is handled properly. But you will have to pull yourself together Orin, if you want to make a good impression on Frank.”

  The lady was an errant optimist, John decided. No one could possibly form a good opinion of Orin Dunn. Least of all a man of Frank Krebbel’s patent good sense.

  “I realize you are upset,” Di continued, “but you mustn’t let it affect your judgment.”

  A new voice intervened. “Of course he is upset” Mrs. Dunn said in tones of rich understanding. ”Orin has been under a terrible strain. First there were weeks and weeks of pressure during the trial and being on public view. Then 6 months in jail with common criminals. Just imagine what an ordeal it must have been for someone like Orin. And then to come back to a murder. And all of this without a word of complaint. Naturally it’s been almost more than he could bear. And darling,” turning to her unfortunate spouse, who was turning a splotchy crimson as he convulsively swallowed whatever remarks were on the tip of his tongue, “I think it’s good for you to get some of this off your chest. It can’t be healthy to repress your natural feelings. I’m sure you must feel better now that you’ve told us frankly what you think.” She smiled kindly at her companions.

  Paralyzed silence.

  “Well,” said Buck, letting out his breath warily and eying Dunn with the first stirrings of sympathy, “I don’t deny you had a raw deal and I hope things work out.”

  His wife followed his lead. “Yes, we all hope so.”

  She was not completely accurate. What John Putnam Thatcher hoped was something quite different.

  3 of the men drank their brandy apart from the card table. French said, “If you ask me, that young man is unbalanced.”

  Hauser babbled something about instability of the brilliant creative minds of the car industry.

  John twirled his snifter silently. Things had come to a pretty pass, he reflected, if Hauser represented the forces of common sense and balanced judgment.

  “I have the greatest respect for Di Holzinger,” announced French, “but I am at a loss to understand what she sees in him.” He looked at his companions inquiringly.

  John said that it was no doubt his transient status which prevented his speaking with authority about the virtues of Orin Dunn with which his colleagues must necessarily be acquainted. Even Hauser looked suspicious at that one.

  “Not that I regret having prevailed upon Frank to see the boy. Everyone should have his day in court.” Conscious, perhaps, of the infelicity of this metaphor, French expanded his remarks. “That is to say it is only right he should be given an opportunity to explain things from his point of view.”

  “I thought his complaint, or at least one of them, was that Krebbel hasn’t seen him,” John commented.

  “Not yet. But he is going to tomorrow morning. After all the boy’s been haunting the executive offices for days now,” French sighed mightily. It was obvious that MM’s front office was not the happy refuge it once had been. “It is time his status was...er...clarified.”

  Hauser, professionally looking on the bright side of things, pointed out it could be worse. At least Mrs. Dunn would not be present at the meeting.

  John immediately lost himself in the vision of Mrs. Dunn explaining to Krebbel that jail intimacies were particularly trying for a man of Orin’s sensitivity.

  French poured himself more brandy. “I had hoped that Buck would come along. The cool detachment of an older head you know ... invaluable. These occasions can be pretty difficult. In fact, I don’t see the point of the meeting without Buck. So why does Di insist on it?”

  “Perhaps,” Hauser suggested, “she is interested in Dunn’s future because they are all in the same boat.”

  John was amused by French’s expression. Clearly French yearned to tell Hauser that it was impossible for a Bredon to be in the same boat with a Dunn. That, in fact, it was hard enough for her to be in the same boat with a Holzinger. Instead he was reduced to plaintive and disjointed mumblings.

  “Nonsense...she’s always taken an interest in the careers of the young people in Michigan...Feels a sense of responsibility...But still, why does she bother with Dunn?

  Why indeed thought Thatcher. It might simply be that Di, finding her husband lacking in a desperate determination to hang on at MM, could command the qualities she required only by trying to drive Holzinger and Dunn in tandem. But it could also be that she and Dunn were already in an unholy alliance because of past activities. And in that case it would be interesting to know what they were up to -- and what they had already done.

  Chapter 10

  Unimproved Surface

  The next morning was unmarred by masculine tantrums or iron plated feminine graciousness. Recent events proved this was a blessing not to be despised at MM. Nevertheless the agenda was not promising. John was part of a conference in downtown Detroit with the company’s largest truck dealer. The subject was federal highway expenditures and their impact on MM’s Service Vehicle Division. Retreating behind an expression of serious attention, John examined the gathering. On the whole they were a sorry lot.

  The truck dealer was having difficulty functioning as buyer rather than seller. He had a tendency to explain the excellences of his product to the men who made it. Madsen presented a complex report on tax burdens at a machine gun pace that left some of his slower witted listeners gaping. Despite his efficiency he sounded as though his thoughts were elsewhere. In view of Celia’s disclosures at the rectory John could understand this. Madsen was a man in danger of imminent arrest.

  Krebbel had arrived after the others; held up he said briefly by an extended meeting with Orin Dunn. He did not elaborate. The MM president listened to a slightly confused discussion of cost projections and frowned with a calm professional censure. Krebbel remained contained, if undeniably sobered, in the midst of the aftereffects of Jensen’s murder. John let him pass.

  The rest of MM’s executive staff was responding to the difficulties of the current situation by assuming an air of impenetrable soggy peevishness. Division manager and junior accountant alike exhibited a glum self-pity that contrasted unfavorably with the bouncy bonhomie normally characterizing the front office.

  “I have another appointment,” Krebbel announced at the end of the discussion. “You talk out the details at lunch.” Snatching up his ever present attaché case, he was gone, leaving John to the mercies of the Service Vehicle Division. It was all too much for Thatcher. He decided he would eat at least one meal outside the auto world. He dissembled by saying, “I’m late for an appointment too. Didn’t realize it was already after 1. I’ll have to run for it,” and he was off. With that he effected his hasty retreat to avoid being ensnared further in the discussion, including the usually interminable discussion about which car would be placed at his disposal. Congratulating himself on his escape, he was on the street feeling pangs of hunger before he realized that a cooler head would have first learned where his confreres were dining before risking going to that place. With restaurants in every major American city bidding for the expense account trade, you weren’t safe unless you sat at a counter or carried a tray.

  He decided to play it safe by turning down a side street which promised a rapid descent in the social scale, putting 5 blocks between himself and the enemy before coming to a halt at a busy commercial corner where a sign proclaimed: Guido’s Cafeteria.

  And a small price to pay, John said to himself upon entering. Guido’s was very non-MM. The balcony to which a waiter directed him after the usual encounter with the stuffed pepper spesh-ull and 2 eggs ov-uh, provided further reasons for selfcongratulations. It was dim and muted. John deposited his tray at a table with a solitary occupant and addresse
d himself to a roast beef sandwich. Guido’s was simply a road version of the Chock Full O’Nuts on lower Broadway, which often provided him with refuge from similar circumstances at the Sloan. Thatcher was a banker and a realist. The first statistics on population explosion had convinced him that in the future privacy could be achieved in only one way, camouflaged withdrawal from the herd.

  His wandering gaze examined this particular herd and was arrested by the sight of his table mate’s lunch. It consisted of a large cereal bowl containing an unidentified substance, flanked by two smaller dishes, both empty. His companion became aware of his scrutiny.

  “Jell-O and cottage cheese. One dish of each and I mix them together,” he said defiantly.

  “Er...quite so,” replied Thatcher in an expressionless tone.

  Mollified that other continued his confidences, “I am on a diet. Can’t stand either one. If you mix them together, it confuses things.”

  “I can see how that would be true.”

  His neighbor scraped up the last of the gelatinous mess and pushed back his chair as one who has fought the good fight. “Heck of a thing, diets,” he said in parting. “At night I eat unsalted shrimps.”

  Of course, mused Thatcher, it explained Weight Watchers. There were circumstances under which any man might lose interest in natural food products. Perhaps he shouldn’t have squelched Bowman so sharply on the subject of concentrated food tablets. Munching his second sandwich, John explored the problems of dieting and high finance, only dimly aware of a late luncher who deposited his tray on the table and disappeared into the gloom, presumably in search of the water cooler.

  What percentage of the population could be expected to hail tablets as a happy release from the bondage of turnips and buttermilk, no doubt mixed together? A water glass descended on the table indicating its owner’s return. John turned to the nearest evidence of the eating habits of modern America, common garden variety food he saw with relief, the humanitarian triumphing over the financier. The pot roast spesh-ull to be exact.

  John’s eye traveled upward to examine the healthy owner of this healthy meal. He found himself looking into a pleasantly neutral face, characterized by nothing more remarkable than a retreating hairline and rimless glasses. Looking in fact at the face of Frank Krebbel, himself.

  Silence held the MM president and the SVP of the Sloan in a protracted moment of social shock as they stared at each other over the crumb strewn table. Then John disgraced himself by unwisely clearing his throat to venture some hopeless platitude, got as far as, “Hello Krebbel. It’s a small...” and dissolved into laughter.

  For a medium sized man, Krebbel had a surprisingly loud guffaw. Holding on to the table with both hands he rocked and swayed in an abandon of mirth that drew glances from surrounding tables. Glasses and silverware danced a merry accompaniment until he leaned back limply.

  Removing his glasses to wipe his eyes, Krebbel congratulated his companion on orienting himself so well in Detroit as he went on, “Took me years to find this place. I’ve never met a business associate until now.”

  John told him all about Chock Full O’Nuts on Broadway, including specific instructions for finding it. Krebbel wrote them down meticulously.

  “I haven’t seen anything so funny since Wahl chased that car,” restoring his handkerchief to his pocket as a sign of recovery.

  “What was that? I remember hearing something about it?”

  Krebbel retold Celia Jensen’s story with a wealth of detail including a rather unkind description of Wahl going through the motions of an Olympic track star and achieving the speed of an agitated hippopotamus. Wahl was clearly not one of his Chief’s favorites. He continued, “Wahl isn’t up to the weight of that job. There’s no point in not telling you since you have probably figured that out for yourself.”

  Yes Thatcher thought; more to the point what John had figured out was Krebbel was a shrewd operator. He recognized this chance meeting as an opportunity for Krebbel to do the soft sell under informal circumstances that no company hospitality could ever duplicate, especially now at MM .

  “But,” Krebbel continued over John’s musings, “Wahl is as clean as a hound’s tooth on that conspiracy rap. He wasn’t within a mile of it. When I took over I knew I was going to have to mop up everyone who touched it. And it hasn’t been easy. I had real trouble with Eberhart which the Judge helped me with. Look where that left me; practically everyone at the top level of passenger cars had to go. Jensen, our fair haired boy, turned out to be the ringleader. Holzinger and Dunn went to jail with him. When I started digging I realized we had to pressure Wheaton, in Lancasters, to retire too. Buck’s backup man saw what was coming and took himself off to another job shortly after the convictions. 6 months ago every single car division suffered a major shakeup.”

  “That’s quite a swath,” John concluded. You must have reached everyone in the conspiracy but wouldn’t taking Jensen back undo everything?”

  “There was never any question about that.”

  John retorted, “There was certainly a good deal of talk about it.”

  “It was unavoidable. The real question was how to make his severance palatable to the Board. Until I licked that one I couldn’t make a public announcement. Privately I let him know my decision. He was a last ditcher by nature. He didn’t know when he was beaten.”

  “Very awkward,” John said, interested in what would then be said.

  “Yes, it wasn’t an easy situation. For me, Ed, or poor Ray.”

  John thought it would have been a more awkward one if Jensen had lived. He kept this conclusion to himself.

  “But,” Krebbel continued, “I want you to see that these drastic reforms make us a real potential for an excellent investment return for the Sloan.”

  “Yes,” John said, inviting him to get more specific.

  “Wahl is a good example of what’s happening here. 6 months ago he was the Trucks’ Assistant Manager. He was good at that job. In the normal course of events he might have become manager before he reached retirement age. That would have given him a nice boost to his pension and a little bit of glory for his last 5 years in harness. Instead he’s been catapulted overnight into our prestige division. He has to sell in a market totally unlike the one he is used to. I said that he’s not up to the job and he isn’t. But he will be. And it won’t take very long. And in spirit of this kind of situation in every one of our car divisions, we’ve been doing very well. You know the financials for the first quarter as well as I do,” he reminded John. “Sales in Plantagenet and Buccaneer are booming. The Lancasters are a problem, but that’s true for every medium priced car in the country. Our models are going over fine this season. In another year the industry will be talking about the Big Four, not just the Big Three. And we’ve done it with a scrub team in the face of constant howls from the unions, government, and our own stockholders.”

  This speech was the more effective for having been delivered with the neat precision which characterized most of Krebbel’s statements. In a world of backslappers he achieved emphasis through understatement.

  “And you say Wahl is typical?” John asked.

  “He’s an extreme example, I admit. In the other divisions we managed to upgrade some of the middle managers. Years before they had the necessary seasoning of course.”

  It sounded, thought John whimsically, as if they marinated them. Even Krebbel was not immune to the prevailing jargon of American management. “It is an impressive record.” John paused a moment before going on to voice skepticism. “But after all, your difficulties have been shared by your competitors. And they’re not doing badly either.” “Nobody was hit as hard as MM.”

  “That’s true. But they all had to adjust to personnel changes and to a good deal of outside criticism. Plus, of course, foregoing the very substantial advantages accruing from the conspiracy.”

  Krebbel frowned at the indictment. “I’m not sure I agree about substantial advantages. MM can do as well without pric
e fixing. That’s always been my position. If we had all the facts, it may have cost us something to play that game during the last couple of years.”

  “That may be so,” John said peaceably. He had no intention of arguing the merits of price fixing, price leadership, or competitive pricing. That was not his mission in Detroit. “Basically I wonder if 6 months is long enough to judge the effectiveness of ... er ... unseasoned management. The momentum of your previous management may be carrying you along. It might be the booster effect of a good year for the consumer that’s kept your sales growing. You can’t tell what’s going to happen in the next 6 months. Particularly when you have a murder thrown in the mix.”

  “I don’t agree,” Krebbel dissented with a thin note of stubbornness. “Except about the murder of course. The results there are unpredictable. We’re having a board meeting next week, you know. And I’m pretty sure that we’ll decide to defer the new issue. With the market sliding this isn’t a good time to raise money under any circumstances. But this is only a temporary delay. It has nothing to do with basic conditions here. We’ll be calling you again ... and soon.”

  John examined his companion with genuine interest, “You think the murder will only be a temporary embarrassment?”

  “Of course. That unfortunate delay in firing Jensen confused everybody. Just because he was hanging around the company people think he was still involved with it. That’s nonsense. He ceased to be part of MM when the DOJ indicted him. None of our people had anything to gain or lose by his murder.”

  John resisted with effort the temptation to wish Krebbel joy of his opinion, and continued more moderately, “Are you sure you are being realistic? After all Jensen could have given the DOJ a lot of information. There must be MM people who would have suffered if he had made more disclosures.”

  “The people who could have been hurt by Jensen have been dealt with. We have nothing more to hide.”

  John did not believe this and wondered about Krebbel for a moment. MM might have dealt with them but what about the DOJ? Jensen, Holzinger, and Dunn were not the only MM executives privy to the price fixing goings on and conspiracy; presumably the rest of them entertained the usual prejudice against penal servitude, whether or not still formally enrolled on the roster of MM employees. “It’s an interesting situation,” he said aloud. “One tends to forget that while a good many people were damaged by the trial, others benefited didn’t they? On the basis of what you’ve said, you can see that there have been several unexpected promotions.”