“A very imaginative scenario, Mr. Cone,” the CFO says worriedly.
“But possible-isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s possible.”
“Damned right. It’s been done before and it’ll be done again.”
“And you think that is what’s happening to Dempster-Torrey?”
“I don’t know,” Cone says. “I told you it’s just a theory. But I can’t spot any holes in it-can you?”
“I just can’t believe that any corporate raider would murder Dempster just to inflate his profits.”
“You can’t believe it because you’re a moral man with no more than a normal share of greed. But believe me, there are guys on the Street who’ll run a bulldozer over their grandma to make a buck.”
Trale is silent. Suddenly he looks even smaller, shrunken and defeated. “Maybe I should retire,” he says in a low voice. “Jack Dempster played rough, and I went along with him. That was business. But murder? Never! I get the feeling that the world has passed me by. I don’t recognize it anymore. I’ve become obsolete.”
“Nah,” Timothy says, reaching out to pat the little man’s shoulder. “You’re not obsolete, and you’re not going to resign. I need your help.”
“Yes?” Trale says, looking up. “What can I do?”
“You have contacts on Wall Street?”
“Of course. A lot of them. … Oh, I understand. You want me to find out if there are any rumors about an attempted takeover of Dempster-Torrey.”
“Right,” Cone says approvingly. “I’ve got a few snitches myself, but nothing like what a man in your position must have.”
It buoys Trale, and he straightens up in his chair, squares his shoulders. “Yes,” he says, “I can do that. I have a number of chits out on the Street, and I’ll call them in.”
“Just what I was hoping you’d say. How long do you think it’ll take?”
“Not long. Probably by tomorrow.”
“Good enough. You’ll let me know?”
“Of course. As soon as I have anything definite-for or against.”
“Thanks,” Cone says. “Now I’ve got a couple of more short questions and then I’ll let you off the hook. You told me that John Dempster loved his wife, and I accept that. As a matter of fact, Teresa told me they had a happy marriage. But I also heard that he was playing around.”
“What does that have to do with industrial sabotage?”
“Probably nothing,” Cone admits. “But I just like to know as much as I can about the people involved. Was John Dempster a tomcat, Mr. Trale?” And then, knowing when to lie, Timothy adds, “Several people have told me he was.”
“What people told you that?”
Cone sighs. “You’re stalling, Mr. Trale. If you don’t want to answer, tell me and I’ll accept it. And go on believing what I’ve heard.”
The CFO hesitates a long moment. “It can do no harm now,” he says finally. “And besides, too many people know to try to keep it a secret. It’s true, Mr. Cone: Dempster was a womanizer. It was almost a carryover from his business methods. When he saw something he wanted, he went after it, regardless of the cost, the risk, or how long it might take. He was that way in his pursuit of women as well. But he always went back to Teresa. I know that for a fact.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says, figuring the Security Chief, Theodore Brodsky, was probably right on the button when he implied Dempster and Eve Bookerman were having an affair. “Thanks for the talk; it’s been a help. I’ll wait for your call on takeover rumors.”
They rise, shake hands, start out. But Timothy pauses at the door. “One final question, Mr. Trale: Do you know David Dempster?”
“I’ve met him,” the other man says.
“Do you happen to know if he’s married?”
“Divorced. About five years ago, as I recall.”
“Has he remarried?”
“I don’t know. Why are you interested in David Dempster?”
“I’m trying to figure out the guy,” Cone says, leaving the Chief Financial Officer to wonder what that meant.
He slouches into Samantha Whatley’s office, and she looks up.
“I’m busy,” she says.
“So am I,” he says. “Puddling around in this heat, doing God’s work. I need a couple of things.”
She tosses her pen onto the desk and sighs. “Make it short and sweet.”
“That’s not what you said the other night.”
She looks around nervously. “Keep your voice down.” She still believes their co-workers are unaware of their relationship, but he thinks a few of the other dicks guess what’s going on.
“I need a rental car,” he says. “This Dempster-Torrey thing is spreading out, and I’ve got to get around. Tell H.H. the client will okay the expense.”
“How do you know-did you ask them?”
“No, I didn’t ask them. Come on, don’t bust my balls, just get me some wheels.”
“I’ll try. That’s it?”
“No, that isn’t it. I want you to pull a telephone scam for me. I’d do it myself, but it needs a woman’s voice.”
“I don’t know,” she says doubtfully. “Is it important?”
“It’s not my main lead, it’s sort of a fallback position. You know what that is, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she says in a low voice. “I fall back and you jump my bones. All right, what’s the scoop?”
He explains: She is to call the office of David Dempster Associates, Inc., and speak only to the secretary. If Dempster answers, hang up. She is to tell the secretary that she’s an old friend of Mrs. Dempster but hasn’t seen her for years. Now she’s in town for a few days and would love to chat with her old school chum. But she understands Mrs. Dempster has been divorced, and she doesn’t have her new address and phone number or even the last name she’s using now. Could the secretary help her out?”
“What’s Mrs. Dempster’s first name?” Sam asks.
“Don’t know.”
“Shithead!” she says wrathfully. “How can I claim to be the woman’s old school chum if I don’t know her first name?”
“You can finagle it. At least it’s worth a try.”
He gives her the number and she dials.
“Hello, there!” she carols. “Is this the office of David Dempster? Well, my name is Irma Plotnick, and I’m an old friend of Mrs. Dempster-school pals, you know. I’m in town for a few days-South Bend, Indiana, is my home-and I was hoping to get together with Mrs. Dempster. Well, a mutual friend tells me she’s divorced now. I tried her at the number I have for her, but she’s no longer there. So I guess she didn’t get the apartment as part of the settlement-right, dear? Well, goodness, I don’t even know what name she’s using now, let alone where she’s living. Anyway, dear, I was hoping you’d be able to give me the name she’s using, her address-and the phone number if you have it. I so want to get together with her and talk about old times. … You do? Oh, that’s great! Now just wait half-a-mo until I get a pen. All right, I’m all set now. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’ve got it. Thank you so much, dear. You’ve been a love and I’ll certainly tell her when I see her. ’Bye now!”
Whatley hangs up and skids the scratch paper she’s been scribbling on across the desk. “Name, address, and phone number,” she says triumphantly. “How did you like that performance?”
“Not bad,” Cone says grudgingly. “But long-winded. When you’re pulling a telephone con, keep it as brief as you can. The best lies are short ones.”
“I should have known better than to expect thanks from you,” Sam says. “Now take off and let me get some work done.”
“One final question that’s been bothering me,” he says. “If a guy who plays around a lot is called a womanizer, what do you call a woman who does the same thing-a manizer?”
Sam points at the door. “Out!” she says.
Four
It rains hard that night, breaking the back of the heat wave. When Cone slogs down Broadway to work-only a half-hour late this time-the air is breathable and the sky is clear.