subcommittee to search for and recommend a possible successor to Dempster. Meanwhile the responsibility for keeping the conglomerate functioning was assigned to Chief Operating Officer Eve Bookerman.
On the day of the murders, the common stock of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., was listed on the New York Stock Exchange at $155,250 per share. By the following Monday, it was trading at $119,625.
And on Monday afternoon, at precisely three o’clock, Eve Bookerman is ushered into the private office of Hiram Haldering on John Street.
“My dear lady,” he says, taking both her hands in his and twisting his meaty face into a suitable expression of grief, “may I express my extreme sorrow at your loss and my horror at this tragedy.”
“Yes,” she says, looking at their scabrous surroundings with some astonishment, “thank you. May I sit down?”
“Of course, of course,” H.H. says hastily. He drops her hands and pulls an armchair closer to the side of his desk. “After what you’ve been through in the past few days, I would have been happy to postpone this meeting or at least come to your office.”
“No,” she says decisively. “Mr. Dempster wanted to come here, and I’m carrying out his wishes as best I can. Our Chief of Security, Theodore Brodsky, was supposed to come along, but he’s tied up with the New York police and the FBI.”
“I understand completely. And tell me, has there been any progress at all?”
“They don’t tell me anything,” she says fretfully. “Only that the investigation is continuing. Infuriating!”
Haldering nods his fat head benignly. “I can understand that, having worked for the FBI for many years. They’re making progress; I’m sure they are. But nothing will be released until all the facts are nailed down, and either the perpetrators have been taken into custody or suspects identified. I hope, dear lady, that you and other Dempster-Torrey executives are taking extra precautions for your personal safety.”
“The police insisted on it,” she says, not happily. “My bodyguard is sitting in your outer office right now. Ridiculous! I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure Mr. Dempster thought the same thing,” he says. And then, fearing that comment didn’t show the proper respect for the departed, he clasps his pudgy hands and leans across the desk. “Well!” he says with a treacly smile. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss the murder of Mr. Dempster. Now what can I do for you, ma’am?”
“You’re familiar with Dempster-Torrey?”
“Of course. Who isn’t? One of the largest conglomerates in the country, I believe.”
“Eighth largest,” she says, lifting her chin. “Two years ago we ranked number twelve. If J.J. had lived, we would have been the largest within five years. Fantastic! Dempster-Torrey owns twenty-seven subsidiaries with a total of eighty-three divisions. We’re into everything from peanut butter to sheet metal. We produce golf carts, paper napkins, scuba diving gear, ventilation ducts, potato chips, ponchos for the U.S. Government, pasta, hair dryers, forklift trucks, and more. That chair you’re sitting on was made by a Dempster-Torrey subsidiary. One of our industrial divisions made the tile on this floor. You name it and the chances are good that it is produced by Dempster-Torrey.”
H.H. shakes his head in wonderment, although he knows the chair he’s sitting on was purchased secondhand, and the floor tile was part of a job lot-and cruddy stuff it is, too.
“For the past six months or so,” Eve Bookerman goes on, “our factories, warehouses, and distribution centers all over the country have been hit by a series of attacks. Deliberate! Fires, vandalism, unexpected strikes, and consumer lawsuits. There have been eighteen separate incidents. Mr. Dempster did not think that was coincidence, nor do I. He was convinced there is a plot by some person or some group directed against Dempster-Torrey. He had no idea what the reason for such hostility might be, nor do I, nor does anyone else in our organization. Mystery!”
“Surely Mr. Dempster must have made enemies during his career.”
“Of course he did. How could a man do what he did without making enemies? But I can’t believe any of them would take revenge by setting a fire in a little flag and banner factory we own, a fire that killed two innocent workers. Despicable!”
“You said that Mr. Dempster considered the possibility of a plot by some group. Liberty Tomorrow, for instance-the terrorists who called the newspapers after the murders?”
“It was the first time I ever heard the name. That’s one of the most frustrating things about the attacks against Dempster-Torrey. There were no telephone calls, no threatening letters. No one claimed responsibility.”
“And I presume each of these incidents was investigated?”
“Of course. By local police and by our own security people. No arrests, not even a theory on who is responsible. Maddening!”
“Tell me, dear lady, have you told all this to the officers investigating Mr. Dempster’s death?”
“I told them,” she says grimly. “I don’t believe they think there is any connection between the attacks on our factories and J.J.’s murder.”
“But you think there is?”
“I don’t know what to think. Nightmare!”
Hiram Haldering, nodding, begins swinging slowly back and forth in his swivel chair. He’s getting to look more like a dumpling every day. The double chin is going for a triple. The waistcoat is ready to pop its pearl buttons. And what he fancies is an executive stride comes perilously close to a waddle. He is not totally bald, not quite, but his pate glistens, the color of a peeled apple.
He stops swinging to lean on his desk once again, suety palms clasped.
“I should tell you at once, ma’am,” he says, “that Haldering and Company cannot investigate the murder of Mr. Dempster. We have neither the resources nor the personnel. We consider ourselves specialists in corporate intelligence. Buyouts, takeovers, mergers-things of that sort. We provide confidential information on individuals and companies, for a fee. But we are not equipped to conduct homicide investigations.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Eve Bookerman says sharply. “J.J. made an appointment with you on the recommendation of Mr. G. Fergus Twiggs of Pistol and Burns, our investment bankers. The express purpose was to get to the bottom of this series of assaults against our property and our people. We’ve gotten nowhere in trying to solve them or stop them. Mr. Twiggs suggested you might be able to help.”
“Very kind of Twiggs,” Haldering says, preening. “It is true that in several cases we have had remarkable success where others have failed.”
“Then you’ll be willing to take on the job? You can write your own ticket.”
“With the understanding that our investigation will deal only with the industrial sabotage and not the assassination of Mr. Dempster.”
“I’ll accept that,” she says crisply. “When will you be able to start?”
“Immediately!” he cries, picking up on her monosyllabicity.
“Excellent! In the hope that we might come to an agreement, I’ve brought along copies of a file that will give you an idea of what we’ve been up against. Along with a list of personnel involved, addresses and phone numbers- all of which may be of help.”
“I admire your foresight,” he says with an unctuous smile.
“Oh,” she says, snapping her fingers, “one more thing: Mr. Twiggs urgently recommends that we request the problem be handled by one of your investigators-Timothy Cone. Is that his name?”
“Timothy Cone,” Hiram Haldering repeats, smile fading. “Yes, we do employ an investigator by that name. But unfortunately, Mr. Cone is busy with several other cases at the moment. However, we have a number of other investigators who are fully qualified to-”
She interrupts him. “No Cone, no deal,” she says.
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “As you wish,” he says. “Perhaps I should warn you that Timothy Cone is-”
“Mr. Twiggs described him,” she says impatiently. “I know what to expect. If he can do the job, it doesn’t matter.” She rises, holds out her hand. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Haldering. I’m depending on your shop to make sense out of this whole awful affair. Monstrous!”
He starts to thank her for her trust and confidence, but she is out the door, leaving behind a taped accordion file bulging with documents. H.H. picks up his phone and punches the intraoffice extension of Samantha
