A Stitch in Time: An Emma Lathen Best Seller

Chapter 1

Medical History

Wall Street is the money market of the world and its outward trappings of power are plainly visible. Proud bastions rise from high priced curbs with glass walls, contemporary decor and pampered foliage to bespeak financial might. From Brooklyn to the Bronx, whole armies of men and women are drafted to service Wall Street by carrying papers, typing letters and answering telephones. On occasion, one of the grandees of the street can be sighted, the healthy tan of his countenance marking him out from the pallid herd of the common folk.

In an era which puts a premium on visual communication, the face of Wall Street is entirely satisfying.

John Putnam Thatcher came to this conclusion one damp May afternoon as he strolled back to his own particular outpost, the Sloan Guaranty Trust—third largest bank in the world. Possibly a leisurely lunch explained the idle tenor of his thoughts, more possibly it was the inexplicable lull in his duties as senior vice-president of the Sloan and head of its Trust Department.

On the other hand, it might have been native tenacity. Thatcher was still trying to find something good to be said for the new Sloan Guaranty Trust, an opulent palazzo of glass, marble and brass that had replaced the stately and venerable edifice on Pearl Street where Thatcher’s banking had begun many years earlier.

Undeniably, the new Sloan looked impressive.

But, Thatcher thought as he proceeded unhurriedly in the midst of desperate secretaries returning to their desks in frantic hobbled dashes, this cosmetic effect was misleading Wall Street’s power as embodied in its profligate real estate, in its streams of myrmidons or even in its throbbing pulse of activity.

These, after all, could be duplicated on Seventh Avenue. Or, if modern architecture were the nub of the matter, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

No, the real power on Wall Street lurked unseen behind this façade, in the hands of men who could make one telephone call and raise the price of steel. They did this, as they shook hands on four-million-dollar deals, very calmly indeed.

Tom Robichaux, thought Thatcher, entering the Sloan lobby, was a case in point. Robichaux, an investment banker and lifelong friend, had been his recent companion at lunch.

As this protracted meal had testified, Tom Robichaux was markedly untouched by the tensions of high finance that etched lines in the faces of his subordinates at Robichaux & Devane. He had even found it difficult to summon passing interest in the bond issue of a sports arena outside Boston, the ostensible reason for their meeting.

I’ll send this prospectus over to Bowman, Robichaux had said, critically studying his steak au poivre.

Fine, Thatcher replied. He had sensed a certain abstraction in Robichaux, but ingrained caution kept him from explicit inquiry; all too frequently his friend’s preoccupation signified another change in marital status. Over the years John Thatcher had perfected an all-purpose response to tidings of divorce, marriage, alimony, alienation of affection suits and remarriage which conveyed sympathy devoid of any desire for detail.

Are they thinking of an enclosed arena like the Houston Astro-Dome? he asked.

Robichaux seemed to have forgotten what they were talking about.

The Boston bond issue, Thatcher prompted.

Robichaux grounded his coffee cup decisively.

To tell you the truth, John, he rumbled after close scrutiny of the adjoining tables, I’ve got a little problem. . . .

The rest of the conversation was devoted to a conflict between Robichaux and the current Mrs. Robichaux, a Melinda who had hitherto escaped Thatcher’s notice. Melinda, Thatcher concluded, was decidedly original. She did not want diamonds, ermines or Balenciagas. She wanted an island.

. . . so I said that Gardiner has an island because he inherited it, for God’s sake! Robichaux reported indignantly. He didn’t buy it! You don’t buy islands around Manhattan!

Thatcher reflected on this as the Sloan’s elevator bore him up to his offices on the sixth floor. Tom was right. A prudent man contented himself with buying stocks and bonds, industrial parks and warehouses of cocoa beans. That was what Wall Street was for.

Within the hour, Thatcher was to learn that money could take even more mysterious forms than he thought. Together with one of his junior trust officers, he was reviewing the affairs of a hydrofoil company hovering on the brink of bankruptcy. Suddenly they were interrupted by sounds of raucous merriment from the outer office. Thatcher’s eyebrows rose in mute question; young Kenneth Nicolls showed more open surprise.

Just as Tom Robichaux could carry out chancy deals for a million dollars without evincing strain, so the Sloan Guaranty Trust was in the habit of conducting profitable operations without audible gales of hilarity.

Both Thatcher and Nicolls knew that these sounds were not emanating from clerical minions. The outer office was guarded by Thatcher’s secretary, Miss Corsa, a young woman clearly designed by nature for the motto: We are not amused. Rose Theresa Corsa believed in decorum and propriety to a degree that sometimes oppressed Thatcher, and she was fully equal to the task of suppressing indecorous yelps from messenger boys.

She could keep Kenneth Nicolls in line, too.

This meant that the rioters were so exalted that Miss Corsa was powerless to impose her own standards. Considering her attitude to her employer, that boiled down to two starters—the Chairman of the Board and the President of the United States. Lesser mortals would need nerves of steel.

We’ve got to find out about this, Thatcher said, rising to throw open the door and advance upon the scene.

The disturbers of Miss Corsa’s peace were two middle-aged men. One of them, his elegant form topped by a Homburg, was applying a handkerchief to eyes streaming with the force of his glee. He was promptly overcome by another paroxysm.

Better than a fifty-fifty chance! he crowed. It was beautiful! Unbelievably beautiful! And Chisolm . . .

He became speechless at the memory.

His vis-à-vis seemed to understand him, if Thatcher and Nicolls (and Miss Corsa, for that matter) did not. Sitting in a chair, doubled over in pleasurable agony, three hundred dollars’ worth of discreet tailoring hooted triumphantly:

Chisolm’s face! If I die tonight, it will be worthwhile!

I think, said Thatcher to Nicolls, I think that we can abandon hydrofoils for the moment while I deal with this.

This dismissal was unfair and Thatcher knew it. On the other hand, he did not want junior members of the staff present while their elders and betters were losing control.

Obediently, if regretfully, Nicolls departed, leaving Thatcher to survey the intruders. Despite tears, bellows, backslappings and incitement to further delirium, he recognized the two figures.

The Homburg hat, now pushed back to a regrettable angle, crowned his second-in-command, Charlie Trinkam. Trinkam, the most ebullient trust officer of the Sloan, had always been notorious for the gaiety he brought to a vigorous bachelor life, but so far he had not broken down during office hours. The tailoring encased the form of Paul Jackson, one of New York’s flourishing trial lawyers.

The strangest feature of the whole business was that both men seemed sober. Perhaps, not so strange. Thatcher had seen them both drunk and exercising more control than at present.

Charlie Trinkam finally acknowledged his superior’s presence. Clutching at a desk for support, he gasped:

Oh God, John, you missed the scene of the century!

Banishing everything but mild curiosity from his voice, Thatcher said:

What have I missed? What have you two been up to?

A diabolical smile crossed Paul Jackson’s lips.

Freebody v. Atlantic Mutual. To both questions.

Then it all came back to Thatcher.

Pemberton Freebody had been a wealthy and childless widower, living out a comfortable old age at the Waldorf Towers until the onset of cancer. Freebody contemplated the lingering pain and indignity in prospect. Then, without undue regret, he put his affairs in order, named the Sloan Guaranty Trust as executor of his estate, got into his Cadillac and drove safely and slowly out the Long Island Expressway to a small wooded area he remembered from his distant youth. There he punctiliously affixed a note to the dashboard, proceeded into the trees and shot himself in the chest.

At this point, Pemberton Freebody’s plans went awry. A passing truck driver was alerted by the shot. Braking abruptly, he plunged into the woods to find the old gentleman still alive. Forthwith giving the lie to theories about the alienation of our times, he slung the frail body into a fireman’s lift, hurried back to the highway and sped to nearby Southport. At Southport Memorial Hospital, emergency stations were manned, the chief of surgery summoned and every resource of modern medicine brought into play. Despite the intervention of these well-wishers, Pemberton Freebody finally did manage to die—four days later. He had not escaped the indignities, but at least he had never regained consciousness.

So exit Freebody, and enter the Freebody estate. The bulk of it had been left to the newly formed Institute for Cancer Research at Hanover University. Included in the large estate was a hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy with the Atlantic Mutual Insurance Company. Atlantic Mutual quickly informed the Sloan that the suicide invalidation clause of the policy was still in force; Hanover would have to do without this particular one hundred thousand dollars.

Almost immediately, Atlantic Mutual came up against three powerful forces. First was Hanover’s deep disappointment. It was delighted with the amount it had inherited, but it still regretted that one hundred thousand dollars.

For cancer research, we need every cent we can get!

Second, came Charlie Trinkam’s native instinct to spread happiness. More as a theoretical exercise than anything else, he had said: Of course if we hinted that we were willing to go to court, we might get some sort of settlement. . . . After that, as Trinkam himself was the first to admit, he lost effective control of the situation.

Third, the trial lawyer chosen to lend substance to this hint was Paul Jackson. Trinkam had reported this to Thatcher.

When Hanover insisted we retain Paul Jackson—well, John, I figured there’d be a laugh or two in it, if nothing else.

Thatcher had asked why Jackson, a noted criminal lawyer, had consented to take the case.

He likes to get his teeth into insurance companies.

Recalling these words as he ushered the two men into his office past Miss Corsa’s frosty disdain, Thatcher could only suppose that Jackson’s teeth had found a nice, solid grip.

You should have seen it, Charlie Trinkam murmured once again.

Well, I didn’t, Thatcher announced tartly. Suppose you tell me about it.

His professional instincts roused, Paul Jackson leaned forward:

It’s really quite simple. Atlantic Mutual put on its suicide defense. The usual thing, rounded off with the people from Southport Memorial—the hospital where Freebody was taken. A couple of nurses and the surgeon who cut out the bullet.

Beautiful, just beautiful, Trinkam provided a slight accompaniment.

Jackson grinned an acknowledgment.

Then I got started, cross-examining Dr. Martin, the surgeon. And was heaven watching out for us today! He was perfect, an arrogant cocksure bastard who wanted to tangle with me. He turned for an aside to Trinkam. I don’t know what was bugging that guy but we couldn’t have asked for anything better.

You played him like Paderewski.

Martin’s built to be a keyboard! snorted Jackson. "All he wanted to do was contradict me. I could have gotten anything from him. But what I got was the jackpot. It all boils down to his saying two things. First, I wanted to know why the hell they operated—if the man was on his deathbed and nothing could save him anyway. Martin snapped right back at me: The patient had better than a fifty-fifty chance for recovery. The bullet was nowhere near the heart. I operated to improve his chances. All very lofty and professional. Everybody in the courtroom was hating Martin already."

Except us, Charlie said irrepressibly. We were ready to take up a collection for him. Then Paul really twisted it home. Asked why Freebody died if the chances were so good. And he answered—

Let me, pleaded Jackson. He held up a hand and seemed to be quoting holy writ, "Martin said: operation was perfectly successful. But the patient was seventy-six years old, and dying of cancer. He was an aged and enfeebled man in no condition to withstand any unusual or extended strain."

Jackson stopped and looked across at Thatcher with a broad grin.

Thatcher did not hide his restiveness. I have grasped the fact that Martin said exactly what you wanted him to say. I can even see that something else is coming. But until I know what it is, I’m outside this ring of self-congratulation.

Nothing could ruffle the high spirits of his visitors. Charlie Trinkam took a deep breath and delivered the denouement in one long stream.

Then Dr. Martin stepped down and Paul called the man who did an autopsy on Freebody for us. The autopsy revealed that seven hemostatic clips had been left in the body!

Jackson and Trinkam grinned at Thatcher like two imbeciles.

Now wait . . . let me get this absolutely clear, he said. You mean we now have a case that Freebody did not die as a result of shooting himself, but as a result of these hemostats?

That’s it! Jackson sang out. And the beauty of it is that DeLuca, the expert we hired for the autopsy, refused to give an opinion as to the cause of death. He wouldn’t swear it was the hemostats—but he wouldn’t swear it was the bullet, either. DeLuca, by the way, is a big gun in postmortems.

The whole thing seems to have gone beautifully, said Thatcher not stinting his praise.

We were lucky in our man. If the surgeon had been a remorseful young resident, we might not have had it so easy. But this Martin is pure poison. You should have seen Chisolm’s face when he realized what he was stuck with.

Who’s Chisolm?

He’s the lawyer for Atlantic Mutual. This Dr. Wendell Martin, the surgeon, is his witness. Couldn’t be worse. Paul Jackson smiled beatifically. And the jury is going to see a lot of Dr. Martin, believe you me.

Where do things stand now? Thatcher asked.

Oh, Chisolm got an adjournment. To do research, he said. What else could he say? He was flabbergasted!

Thatcher said that he could understand and, in fact, sympathize with this.

Paul Jackson, however, was too deep in hilarious speculation to pity his fellow attorney.

You know what they’ll do, don’t you? They’ll beat the bushes trying to find doctors willing to say they always forget seven hemostats! And is Chisolm going to have a hard time! I can just hear the doctors! Every one of them will swear that he’s never known of seven hemostats left in a patient. No experience with it at all. . . .

Since Jackson showed signs of giving way again, Thatcher intervened.

What about the hospital—at Southport, was it? Will they support the doctor?

Jackson pursed his lips thoughtfully and continued his predictions.

As soon as Southport Memorial Hospital realizes what’s hit it, they’ll lower an Iron Curtain. Nobody will know anything—or remember anything! Oh, we’re still not home clear on this case, John. But we are a lot closer than we were yesterday.

Jackson sighed dreamily.

Charlie Trinkam was ready to pass judgment here and now. I’ve got to hand it to you, Paul. You’ve really set the sparks flying!

Chapter 2

Heartburn

If it was sparks at the Sloan Guaranty Trust, it was more like a forest fire in Southport, Long Island. Southport Memorial Hospital was one of the town’s proudest possessions, so it was only natural that in Segal’s Drugstore, in Muriel’s Bake Shop, in the park and the bus stop, nothing else was discussed.

Isn’t it awful! Southport asked and reasked. Just awful!

The medically devout then moved on to a litany featuring illustrations culled from their own operations.

Southport’s Christian Scientists shook their heads more in sorrow than in anger.

Seven hemostats!

Hemostats, nothing! Do you remember that rubber glove two years ago?

Only a few professional optimists in the Chamber of Commerce were able to dredge some satisfaction from the metropolitan press coverage. Well, this sure puts Southport—and Suffolk County—on the map!

There was some merit in this observation. In 1925, Suffolk County had been much as it was during the American Revolution. Fifty miles stood between the easternmost portion of Long Island and Manhattan. Behind this buffer, Suffolk County slumbered in agricultural languor, cultivating potatoes, ducks and market produce. Its rural fastness suffered only one annual interruption during the brief hysteria of summer vacations, but otherwise Suffolk County was unaffected by the vast population of New York City. A geographic truism explained its protection: fifty miles is too far to go to work.

World War II changed all this. Work came to Suffolk County. The sandy soil began to produce aircraft, gyroscopes and secondary radar instead of asparagus. With the work came workers, and soon the potato farms were giving way to housing developments. Following hard on the heels of these consumers was free enterprise, in the form of shopping centers, discount houses and used-car lots. The great suburban ball was rolling.

The stage props for Freebody v. Atlantic Mutual arrived with another phenomenon. Having been provided with jobs, houses and stores, a multitude of Americans still found time hanging heavy. Despite a forty-hour week earning money (rather restful on the whole), despite a fifty-hour week spending money (totally exhausting), people still managed to divorce each other, abandon their children, commit crimes, read books, play tennis and get sick.

There was an anguished wail for social services. Authority, slower off the mark than entrepreneurs, belatedly recognized the need for more schools, marriage counselors, libraries, courts, jails, parks, social workers and hospitals. New agencies proliferated like fruit flies; old institutions donned new paint and flexed their muscles.

Among the older institutions struggling with the population explosion, none had been more successful than Southport Memorial Hospital. Originally built in 1927, Southport Memorial was remodeled in 1949; a new wing was added in 1959, and by 1966 a full-scale expansion was projected.

It was, Southport learned, one fund drive after another.

Expanding with the hospital was the medical staff. Nurses, orderlies, analysts, X-ray technicians, laboratory specialists and nurses’ aides jostled for parking space. The top of the totem pole was, of course, reserved for the doctors—obstetricians, internists, surgeons, neurologists, endocrinologists, gynecologists, dermatologists, pathologists. Many specialties and many men. But, as in any hospital, the doctors who really ran things could be numbered on the fingers of one hand.

Two of them were showing the flag, as it were, at Segal’s Drugstore. On the whole, they were giving a fine performance of men oblivious to the vulgar gossip around them.

That’s him, isn’t it? the customer at cosmetics hissed at the salesgirl. Martin, I mean. Over there, at the tobacco counter.

The clerk emerged from under the counter and looked across the store.

That’s him, all right. The short one. The big man with him is Dr. Wittke, the head of the hospital. Dr. Wittke’s a real gentleman.

Did you read about what Dr. Martin did? I tell you! Imagine leaving all that junk in that guy. Killed him just as if he put the bullet in him, that’s what I say!

The salesgirl lowered her voice confidentially. Listen, nothing Dr. Martin does would surprise me! He’s always rushing around and snapping someone’s head off. He probably leaves things in his patients all the time!

This libel was the result of personnel practices at Segal’s Drugstore. At lunchtime, the salesgirl covered the tobacco stand, and Dr. Wendell Martin was particular about his cigars.

At the back of the store, a salesman from one of the big drug houses was deep in knowledgeable talk with Harry Segal, who was Sid’s younger boy.

I see Dr. Martin got himself in hot water, he said.

He’s sure making the headlines, Harry agreed neutrally.

He’ll find some way to duck the whole thing, the salesman said with a knowing smile. He’s a smart cooky when it comes to taking care of old Number One.

Harry looked up from the price list. I didn’t know you knew him.

Met him a couple of times, said the salesman. "I don’t deal with him, thank God! Give me the druggists any time. You can have