Murder for Lunch Read online

  Bannard, angry as he was, realized this too, and acknowledged the officer’s query with a reluctant nod of his head. Frost, who had been silently agonizing at Bannard’s imperious manner—just because lawyers knew how to lean hard did not necessarily make it wise to do so—admired the young policeman’s calm in standing up to the bullying; he was nonetheless glad that the confrontation now seemed at an end.

  “By the way, could I see the deceased’s office before I leave?” Bautista asked.

  “Of course. Come with me,” Bannard said.

  “And will Miss Appleby be nearby?”

  “If she’s there at all, she’ll be sitting at the desk directly outside Donovan’s office,” Bannard said.

  “She’s a severe but nice-looking woman with gray hair,” Frost added, bringing up the rear as they left Bannard’s office.

  The visit to the site of the poisoning was not enlightening or, if it was, Bautista did not let on. And to his disappointment Miss Appleby was not at her desk. When the detective had finished looking around, Bannard asked him to return briefly to the corner office, though, as far as Bautista was concerned, there was nothing more to be discussed at the moment. Frost did not know what Bannard had in mind either, but whatever it was it made the Executive Partner palpably nervous. Back behind a closed door, Bannard told Bautista and Frost what was troubling him.

  “Detective, is there any chance of keeping this out of the newspapers?”

  “Until we find the murderer, yes,” Bautista answered. “I don’t think it is in anyone’s interest to broadcast the fact that your partner was murdered; the chances of catching the killer are going to be greater if he—or she—does not know that murder is suspected. We don’t need one of those Post headlines—‘Wall Street Biggie Poisoned at Posh Club’—to complicate things. I don’t think you have to worry though, given the way the newspaper business works in this town.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, unless the Police Department chooses to make a big announcement about this case, the only way the press will get the story is by looking at the police blotter. Yesterday, the only thing the blotter showed was that your partner died of cardiac arrest. And the new entry, with more intriguing information, will not be made until late this afternoon, long after the hardworking police reporters have taken their daily look at it. To get press attention for your murder in this town, Mr. Bannard, you have to be a careful planner, timing your crime so that the tigers of the press can discover it on the blotter and blow it up for the afternoon headlines. You could be done in by a one-man nuclear bomb and it would never make the news if it happened at the wrong time of day.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mr. Bautista,” Bannard said. “The whole question of publicity is of course secondary; the important thing is to find Graham Donovan’s murderer. But if it can all be done quietly, so much the better.”

  Reuben Frost wondered whether Bannard saw the inconsistency in the positions he had taken with the police officer—wanting an all-flags-flying investigation on the one hand, yet the utmost secrecy on the other. Frost thought he might just have a word with Detective Bautista; he liked the man’s ability to withstand Bannard’s inconsistent outbursts and thought perhaps the two of them could communicate in a less contentious way.

  “Is that all, Mr. Bannard?” Bautista asked.

  “Yes, I guess so,” Bannard said. “Just let us know what we should do next.”

  “Fine,” Bautista said.

  “George, I’ll show Mr. Bautista out,” Frost said.

  As Frost and Bautista walked down the hall, Frost asked the detective to stop off at his office. Bautista was puzzled, but he followed the older man inside Frost’s modest quarters.

  “Come in, Detective,” Frost said. “I’m sorry I can’t give you the panoramic view anymore, but make yourself comfortable anyway.”

  “Anymore, sir? I don’t think I understand.”

  “Oh, nothing,” Frost said, suddenly appalled that he was apologizing—complaining?—about the size of his office. “I’m pretty much retired, you see, so I really don’t take an active part in what goes on in the firm. I used to run it, after a fashion, but that was a while back.”

  “Then how did you get involved with this Donovan thing?” Bautista asked.

  “I happened to have the good luck to be around, I guess. George—Bannard—had to go to Chicago on Tuesday, so he left me in charge of things. It was supposed to be only annoying details about the funeral until the incident with the water carafe occurred.

  “I hope, by the way, that you applied some discount to Mr. Bannard’s remarks,” Frost continued. “He gets carried away at times and this nastiness has put him under pressure—one doesn’t like to have a scandal occur on one’s watch. He is a friend of the Mayor’s, by the way—there’s some resemblance in their temperaments—but I don’t think he’s quite ready to make trouble yet.”

  “I understand,” Bautista said, grinning broadly. “I’m used to heat from above, below and sideways.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Frost replied, a slight if sympathetic smile on his face as well. “And I’m also sure you’ll somehow reconcile George’s desires for both a full-blown investigation and total secrecy.”

  Bautista grinned again. “That may be harder. But we’ll try.”

  “How do you think the investigation should proceed?” Frost asked.

  “Let’s consider one other alternative first,” Bautista said, looking straight at Frost. “I couldn’t really raise it with Mr. Bannard, after the things he said, but let me try it on you.”

  Implicit in Bautista’s statement were the conclusion that Frost had struck him as an eminently more reasonable man than Bannard and the shrewd hunch, dimly recognized, that perhaps both he and Frost, each in their own way, had been somewhat abused by the Executive Partner.

  “Mr. Frost, one approach would be to forget this whole thing. You and your firm have discharged your responsibility by notifying the police of the alleged murder. The murder was probably a personal thing, festering out of some grievance against the deceased. So it’s not likely to recur. And even if we found the murderer, you’d have a hard time proving that your cremated Mr. Donovan had been poisoned. You’d have to discredit the autopsy to do it. As you may have guessed from my response in Mr. Bannard’s office, that is probably not the hardest thing in the world to do. But it wouldn’t help when you’re trying to convict somebody Iseyond a reasonable doubt.’ Besides, there’s no one around demanding vengeance; the son is the only relative, and from all you have told me about him he may well be a suspect. So let’s forget the whole thing. No publicity, no public scandal. Everything will just be forgotten.”

  “That is unthinkable,” Frost replied. “Sure, all of us would like to avoid scandal and publicity, as Bannard so clearly indicated. But I don’t see how we could live with the possibility that there may be someone among us who has committed murder. We’ve got to solve this thing.”

  “I was hoping you would say that,” Bautista said. “But I did want to get on the table that the path to a triumph of justice may be a little slippery.”

  “I know all that,” Frost replied. “But I repeat, where do we go from here?”

  “Well, despite what Mr. Bannard says, I’m going to try and keep things low-key for a couple of days. Sure, we could interview everybody in sight, but I’ve got a hunch the information we need to start working on can be gotten more quietly.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as trying to narrow down who had access to Donovan’s office. Who was in a position to poison the water in his carafe? He apparently made his iced tea with water from that carafe every morning. And from what you tell me, the poison that was put in his water could remain potent for up to twenty-four hours. So we only need to check on the time from Monday morning through Tuesday morning.”

  “Oh, I think we can cut it even finer than that. Unless I am mistaken, the water in the partners’ carafes is changed every night. So
we only really have to worry about Tuesday,” Frost said.

  Bautista grinned again. “Mr. Frost, you sound like a detective.” Then, after a pause, he asked, “Do I get the impression you want to be involved with this investigation?”

  Frost was embarrassed, embarrassed because his eagerness had apparently shown through.

  “Of course I do. Graham Donovan was my friend. This firm was my life for almost half a century. I want to do whatever I can, Officer.”

  “Perfect. Well, as I say, you can inquire around about the access thing. And maybe try to find out if you’re right about the water carafes being emptied at night. And I’d keep an eye on your Miss Appleby. Bannard said she’s going to be followed?”

  “That’s what Bannard decided. So something may come of that.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what else?”

  “Just keep your eyes and ears open. And here’s my direct number if you need to call me in a hurry,” the detective said as he handed Frost his card. “And I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Something is sure to turn up.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mr. Bautista. I hope you’re right,” Frost replied.

  EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE MEETING

  12

  The members of George Bannard’s executive committee, except for Keith Merritt, were not drinkers of the Perrier and white wine school. Arthur Tyson favored bourbon, and Fred Coxe and Bannard martinis—the drier the better. Merritt nearly always drank Campari or something equally light. Coxe unashamedly drank his martinis like Coca-Cola, consuming twice as many drinks as his colleagues, who overlooked his slight but nonetheless visible shaking and the occasional slur in his speech. Bannard usually confined himself to a single martini at these cocktail hour get-togethers unless the agenda was a full one, in which case he would extend himself to two.

  Bannard knew before he left his office that this Thursday evening would be a two-martini night. He would need the two drinks to unwind and there was enough to talk about over two drinks.

  Like clockwork, Bannard’s colleagues appeared at the Hexagon Club bar at six o’clock. They sat down at their usual table in the corner of the room, a table affording a magnificent view of midtown Manhattan and beyond (a view that they seldom, if ever, noticed), and called Arturo, the bar waiter.

  After ordering drinks—Bannard always signed for them, which the others took to mean (but never asked) that the bill would be paid by Chase & Ward as a business expense—the foursome conversed nervously in unusually quiet voices. (Merritt, as the expert on firm operations and finances, knew that in fact Bannard put in chits for their committee drinks, but he had never raised the subject with Bannard or his colleagues.)

  The four men realized that one fact made this Thursday’s meeting different from all of those that had gone before—the irretrievable absence of Graham Donovan, the fifth member of the Executive Committee. This fact and the now undeniable cause of their partner’s death subtly altered their usual behavior. Tyson was extremely subdued, and Merritt rather more manic. And Coxe began drinking even more rapidly than usual, if such was possible.

  Bannard, who often complained vocally about the burdens of being the Executive Partner in the best of times, did not complain, but did act as if the weight of the whole world were on his shoulders.

  “What a day,” he told his confederates. “First that joke funeral, then the lab report, then our exciting lunch, then the NYPD. Let me tell you about that.” Bannard recounted the meeting with Officer Bautista, and the policeman’s seeming unwillingness to proceed immediately with a full-dress investigation.

  “The whole meeting was completely unreal,” Bannard said. “No respectful Irish cop ready and eager to bring a killer to justice, but a tall Puerto Rican—a matinee idol at that—acting supercautious.”

  “Goddam,” Tyson exploded. “He sounds like the jerks at the medical examiner’s office.” Still seething about their behavior two days earlier, he recounted again for the benefit of the group the runaround he had gotten, though considerably deemphasizing any role he may have had in bringing about the erroneous autopsy result.

  “It certainly is extraordinary,” Coxe said. “And where does all this leave us?”

  “Way up a muddy river, I’d say,” Merritt observed.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Bannard agreed glumly.

  “George, it sounds to me like you’re going to have to add playing Sherlock Holmes to your executive responsibilities,” Coxe said.

  “No, Fred, you’re wrong. We are all going to play Sherlock Holmes,” Bannard said, signaling Arturo for another round as he did so. (Coxe had already summoned the waiter back with a second martini, which was almost gone.)

  “Well, if that’s the case, let’s begin,” Merritt said. He took his engagement calendar and a pen from his suit coat pocket and opened the calendar to the pad of paper affixed to the inside cover. “Let’s make a list of every possible suspect we can think of.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Keith,” Tyson exploded. “We’re never going to be able to solve this thing. Besides, there are no suspects.”

  “Oh no?” Merritt said petulantly. “How about Grace Appleby?”

  “Unlikely,” Bannard said, “as I tried to tell Bautista.”

  “But a suspect just the same, right?” said Merritt, as he started to write down her name. “With all that funny business about Stephens stock, she may well have had a motive.”

  “But, as I said to Bautista, where did she get the poison?” Bannard interjected.

  “What did he say?” Coxe asked.

  “He had no idea, but said there were a hundred ways you could get it.”

  “Doesn’t she do volunteer work at some hospital?” Tyson asked. “I seem to recall one day at lunch when someone was complaining to Graham about how disagreeable his secretary had been that Graham said she was really Florence Nightingale in disguise.”

  “By God, I think you’re right, Arthur,” Bannard said, his voice shaking slightly. “I do remember Graham telling us that.”

  “So I’ll put an asterisk after her name, for access to the poison,” Merritt said. “Now who else do we have? What other Chase & Ward employees?”

  “I can’t think of any,” Coxe said. “Everybody liked Graham. And rightly so. There was just no reason to kill him.”

  “Well, Fred, there you are obviously wrong—I was about to say dead wrong. Do you think someone poisoned Graham’s water carafe by mistake? Maybe they were really after you and just goofed it up,” Bannard said.

  “That’s not especially funny, George,” Coxe shot back, pouting slightly.

  “All right, who else? No employees? How about clients?” Merritt pressed.

  “Let’s see,” Bannard said. “Whose work was Graham doing recently?”

  “Well, Stephens Industries, obviously, as we know only too well,” said Tyson.

  “Who did he deal with there?” George asked.

  “I think only Joe Mather. Donovan never had any respect for Stephens’ general counsel, what’s-his-name Peck, and Mather didn’t like him either. Mather was always going around him and dealing directly with Graham,” Tyson said. “I know, because I do the Stephens litigation.”

  “Maybe Peck killed Donovan,” Coxe said.

  “Don’t be silly, Fred,” Bannard barked at him. “If we’re going to play Keith’s little game, let’s play it out.”

  “Graham was doing the corporate work for First Fiduciary,” Merritt said.

  “Not much help there,” Tyson said. “Harry Knight is too old and too feeble to murder anybody, and most of the vice presidents over there are too feebleminded to commit murder.”

  “You’re right, Arthur. I suppose it’s worth a little digging to see if there’s anyone over there who had it in for Graham, but I would guess you’re not going to find much,” said Bannard.

  “Then of course there’s Dwight Draper,” Merritt said. “I know Graham’s been involved with him recently because his chemical company
is about to go public. He’s been around pestering me incessantly for tax advice.”

  “No good,” Bannard said. “I don’t like him much, but he and Graham go way, way back. I saw Draper at the funeral and he said he and Graham were like “brothers.” Draper as the murderer—it just doesn’t wash.”

  “So, gentlemen, thus far I have one name on my list, poor Grace Appleby,” Merritt said. “Is that the best we can do? How about the associates? Any prospects there?”

  “I can think of about four that are probably capable of anything, but I don’t think any of them ever had anything to do with Donovan,” Tyson said.

  “And I can think of four too—probably different from your four—but again, I don’t know of any link to Graham,” Bannard said. “You remember that Donovan was never very enthusiastic about the young lawyers who worked for him, and certainly never pushed any that I remember for partnership. But did he have blood enemies among the associates? I doubt it.”

  “Look, it may just be possible,” Tyson said. ‘Tor the associates, becoming a partner in Chase & Ward is more often than not the biggest thing in their lives. They get divorced for it, they become workaholics for it, they develop a psychosis about it. To be denied a partnership after working your behind off for seven or eight or nine years can be pretty devastating. Maybe somebody was just twisted enough to take it out on Donovan.”

  “What about that fellow Donovan spoke out against at our last two election meetings?” Tyson asked.

  “You mean Perry Griffith?” Bannard answered.

  “That’s the one,” Tyson said.

  “Well, Donovan certainly didn’t like him,” Bannard said. “I remember it well. All the partners were sitting around at the meeting and Griffith seemed like a pretty good bet to become a partner, either this year or next, when Donovan spoke out. Remember? He said that Perry Griffith was a fine lawyer, that he had a fine mind, but that there was just some ‘missing element’ that made Donovan hesitant.”

  “Yes, and when some of us tried to pin Graham down, all he could say was that he thought Griffith was just too ambitious for his own good,” Coxe said.