Murder for Lunch Page 20

  “How do you know? Did he call?”

  “No, he called Anne yesterday.”

  “Well, thank God. But that still doesn’t solve Problem Number One, does it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Frost said.

  “Anything new?” Merritt asked.

  “Nope,” Frost answered, running it through mentally. “You’re still a suspect.”

  Merritt smiled weakly, his exuberance now deflated.

  “But something is bound to happen soon,” Frost added. “I hope.”

  Frost’s wish for a new development was rapidly fulfilled. No sooner had Merritt left his office than Perry Griffith—a much chastened Perry Griffith—appeared.

  “Reuben, I want to apologize for getting so angry yesterday,” he said. “But I’m afraid all the pressures and feelings about Graham and his death just got the better of me.”

  “I understand,” Frost replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Do you remember what you asked me last week, when you told me about Graham?”

  “What?”

  “‘Keep your eyes and ears open,’ you said.”

  “That’s right. And do I take it you have something to report?” Frost was excited. His hunch had been that the ambitious young Griffith would move heaven and earth to finger a suspect other than himself. Was it now going to prove correct?

  “I’m not certain, Reuben. But I think you should talk to Michael Phelan.”

  “Phelan?”

  “Yes. He’s an associate who’s been around a couple of years now and most recently worked for Graham,” Griffith answered.

  Phelan, Phelan … After some thought, Frost recalled him—a bespectacled, freckle-faced fellow who appeared to be a cross between Ichabod Crane and Alfred E. Newman. But he had been assured by several colleagues that the packaging was deceiving; Phelan was in fact super-bright and had been first in his class at Columbia Law School.

  “I remember now,” Frost said. “What about him?”

  “Well, as you probably know, Donovan was working with Dwight Draper on taking his company public. Everything was all set, I understand—the registration statement for a stock offering was going to be filed with the SEC this week, and Drake, Monroe was going to head the underwriters. Then a snag developed. But I’ll let Phelan tell you about it.”

  “I’ll call him in. Do you want to stay?”

  “No. He’d better talk to you alone. But don’t say I didn’t keep my ears open.”

  Frost called Phelan immediately, and within not more than a minute, the tall, gawky associate was in Frost’s office, peering through his Coke-bottle glasses.

  “Sit down, Phelan. I understand you were working on the Draper public offering with Graham Donovan?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “And you were about to file?”

  “Yes, sir. We were scheduled to file with the Securities and Exchange Commission today, in fact,” Phelan answered.

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, sir, Mr. Donovan sent me out to the Draper plant early last week to do ‘due diligence.’ I was supposed to read the minute books, read all of Draper’s material contracts, et cetera, to make sure everything was disclosed properly in the registration statement.”

  Phelan was clearly the product of a Catholic school, Frost thought. He had that precise way of speaking associated with Irish monsignors, the underlying urban accent smoothed out, but not completely. And he was didactically explaining to Frost, who had been practising law for fifty years, what a “due diligence” search was!

  “So I take it you found something?” Frost asked.

  “Yes, sir, I did. Draper Chemicals has a long-term loan agreement with Freedom Mutual Insurance which contains a negative pledge. Under the negative pledge, Draper Chemicals has promised not to mortgage any of its property to anyone else—”

  “Mr. Phelan, I am quite aware of what a negative pledge is. Please go on,” Frost said with some impatience.

  “Sorry, sir. Well, anyway, I later found a credit agreement with Multibank under which Draper had pledged all its accounts receivable as security.”

  “And this agreement was after the Freedom Mutual agreement?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Freedom Mutual never gave its consent to the Multibank agreement?”

  “Not that I could find. And nobody in the treasurer’s office over there knew of any consent either.”

  “When did you tell Graham about this?”

  “As soon as I found it, sir. I knew it looked pretty serious, so I told him right away,” Phelan said.

  “But when, precisely?”

  Phelan took a pocket calendar from his pocket and examined it. “The week before last, sir. I think on Thursday, September seventh.”

  “And what did Donovan do? Did he confront Draper with what you found?”

  “Oh yes indeed, sir. Mr. Draper had been in the office a lot getting the registration statement ready. He and Mr. Donovan worked on it almost every day that week. But he wasn’t due in that Friday. Mr. Donovan insisted that he come in anyway.”

  “This was Friday, September eighth?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Were you present when they talked?” Frost asked.

  “No. Mr. Donovan felt he should see Draper alone. But I heard about it afterwards,” Phelan said, grinning. “Mr. Donovan said there were real fireworks.”

  “So it was true? Draper Chemicals was in violation of its Freedom Mutual agreement?”

  “I don’t know that for sure. All Mr. Donovan said to me was that Mr. Draper was fit to be tied and the offering was going to be postponed. He also said I’d done a good job.”

  “Michael, I would agree. That’s what due diligence is all about—trying to find out the truth, no matter how different it is from what people tell you or how inconvenient it is to face. So the offering has been withdrawn?”

  “Yes. Mr. Draper came in to see Mr. Donovan again Monday—”

  “Are you sure of that?” Frost interrupted.

  “Yes. At least Mr. Donovan told me so …”

  “Monday the eleventh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “Right after lunch, I think. Miss Appleby called me about two o’clock to find out where Mr. Donovan was. She said that Mr. Draper was waiting in the office. Mr. Donovan told me later that Mr. Draper had been in and tried to talk him into letting the offering go forward. Again he had gotten very angry, or so Mr. Donovan said. Mr. Donovan said it was an awful mess and he hadn’t decided who he would have to tell if Mr. Draper didn’t straighten things out himself. It is a Federal crime, you know, to give false information when you apply for credit from a bank.”

  “Mr. Phelan, I have the feeling you keep forgetting that I, too, am a lawyer.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Were we counsel for Draper Chemicals on either of the loan transactions, by the way?” Frost asked.

  “Yes, we represented the company in the Freedom deal. But the Multibank transaction was done entirely in-house,” Phelan said.

  “How did you know the offering was called off?”

  “Mr. Donovan sent me a note to that effect Tuesday morning. The day he died.”

  “Phelan—Michael—thank you very much for this information.”

  “No problem, sir,” the young man replied, oblivious to the unpinned hand grenade he had lobbed onto Frost’s desk.

  “Oh, and Phelan, would you send me a copy of the latest proof of the Draper registration statement?”

  After Phelan had gone, Frost decided that he should double-check the information about Draper Chemicals. Not that he doubted Phelan, but with homicide the issue, Frost wanted to be absolutely sure of his footing as he proceeded. But after checking his mental Rolodex, he sadly realized that his contacts at both Freedom Mutual and Multibank were rusty and somewhat out-of-date; all the names he could recall were of those who had retired or died. Bannard will surely
know people to call, he thought, as he got up and headed toward Bannard’s office. It’s about time he did something useful anyway, Frost thought.

  Frost explained the new developments to Bannard. At once Bannard placed calls on a highly confidential basis to a Freedom Mutual staff lawyer he had worked with on several financings and to a college classmate who was a senior vice president of Multibank. Within the hour they had both called back with the expected answers: Freedom Mutual was unaware of any secured bank financing, and Multibank was unaware of the existence of an outstanding negative pledge binding on Draper Chemicals.

  Meanwhile the Draper registration statement arrived from Phelan in the intraoffice distribution. The printed proof did indeed appear to Frost to be almost ready to file. He started to read it through but stopped in mid-sentence, frozen, when he got to the following passage in the description of the company’s business: “Among other products manufactured by the Pharmaceutical Division of the Company are: Validon, a cortisone-based salve used to treat various skin conditions; Pernon, a digitalis-based liquid used …”

  Frost did not even bother to finish the sentence. He rushed next door to the conference room where Bautista was working and told him he had to see him at once. Somewhat to his embarrassment, he found the policeman questioning Arthur Tyson. By the looks on their faces, it was not a happy meeting.

  “I’m just finishing up here, Mr. Frost, I’ll be with you in a minute,” Bautista said. Tyson looked startled, then angry. Frost quickly shut the door and returned to his office.

  Bautista came into Frost’s office with a look of relief, presumably from being free of Arthur Tyson. Frost related the new information about Draper and his company. Bautista, sensing that they might be about to have a break, took meticulous notes. When Frost had finished, Bautista flipped back through his notebook.

  “Mr. Frost, didn’t you tell me that the lab said the poison that killed the deceased had a life of up to twenty-four hours? That it could have been put in his drinking water up to twenty-four hours before he died?”

  “Yes, I did. But we decided it was put there the same morning when Donovan died,” Frost said.

  “And we did so because …”

  “Because the maintenance man refills the partners’ water carafes every night,” Frost said.

  “And we know that because …?” Bautista asked.

  “Because the maintenance man told me so,” Frost answered.

  “In other words, we have the hottest lead so far, except for the one detail about refilling the water carafes.”

  “That’s the way I see it.”

  “Tell me again about the maintenance man,” Bautista said.

  “Well, as I told you, he’s very young. Hispanic. Named Carlos, as I recall,” Frost said. Once again he saw no reason to bring up the “Faghater” remark. “He told me that the last thing he does before leaving every night is refill the water carafes. And he assured me he had done so the night before Donovan died.”

  “I think I’d better have a word with Don Carlos,” Bautista said. “Do you know how to reach maintenance?”

  Frost did not, but through his secretary’s efforts he was shortly connected to the basement headquarters of the cleaning contractor responsible for the building. After much checking around, this office reported that one Carlos Garcia was going to be working that night but that he was not due in until three-thirty. Frost relayed this information to Bautista.

  “That’s all right. I’ll go back to what I was doing, except for seeing Mr. Tyson. No help there, but I got another good lecture about police meddling and so forth. Your guys are pretty good at beating up on cops,” Bautista said. “Have them send Mr. Garcia up here as soon as he comes in,” he added.

  “Sure.”

  “And can I see this registration statement for Draper Chemicals?” Bautista asked. “If Garcia changes his story—and I bet you he will—I have an idea that I may be visiting their plant real soon.”

  Frost handed the proof to Bautista, who went back into the adjoining room.

  Carlos Garcia appeared at Frost’s door about twenty minutes before four. Frost’s secretary had apparently stepped away, so the youth came directly into the office where his earlier questioning had taken place.

  “You Frost?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “The boss says I got to see you.”

  “That’s also right.”

  “What for?”

  Bautista entered the office.

  “Mr. Garcia—it is Garcia, is it not?” Frost asked.

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “Mr. Garcia, this is Detective Bautista of the Police Department.”

  “A cop! What the hell do you want with me?” Garcia yelled.

  “Calm down, amigo,” Bautista said. “You’re not in any trouble. We just need a couple of fast answers. Will you come with me?”

  “Where? I ain’t going nowhere!”

  “Look, amigo, I told you you’re not in any trouble with me. Just step next door so I can ask you a couple of questions in private,” Bautista said.

  The pair left, and Bautista shut the door to the conference room. Frost waited at his desk. He heard voices being raised, loud enough for him to hear that Spanish was being spoken. Then the door opened and Bautista shook hands with Garcia, who then left.

  “Well, Mr. Frost,” Bautista said, grinning, “you only got part of the story. Our friend, my amigo Garcia, did indeed work last Monday night. However, he’s been having some girl trouble and he left a little early—”

  “—before changing the water in the carafes,” Frost interjected.

  “Exactly right. He lied to you because he was scared for his job. But I think I’ve got the truth now, and it sure makes your friend Draper a hot prospect.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Let me make a call, and then I’ll tell you.”

  Bautista went back into the conference room, returning about five minutes later.

  “I’ve got a buddy who’s an investigator for the Food and Drug Administration. He owes me a professional favor—a big favor, in fact—and it turns out he happens to be free tomorrow. So I think the two of us just may do some scouting at Draper Chemicals. Very discreet-like. I’ll let you know what we turn up, if anything.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Frost said. “Believe me, I’ll be waiting.”

  AN EVENING AT HOME

  20

  As was their custom when eating at home, Cynthia and Reuben Frost sat in their living room having a pre-prandial drink. Cynthia kept getting up to look in on dinner; the Frosts did not have a cook. They had tried various expedients over the years—haughty cooks with impeccable credentials, part-time music and dance students who cooked in exchange for board. Nothing had worked out.

  The fact was the Frosts enjoyed eating out, and on many evenings were compelled to, not because of Reuben’s life but because of Cynthia’s. Art openings, plays (on, off and far off Broadway), and of course the ballet, often meant late suppers in a handful of favorite spots ranging from the celebrity camaraderie of Elaine’s and the quieter elegance of the Four Seasons to some all-American hamburger spots, with a select list of haute Italian, Japanese, and occasional French, Mexican, or Chinese restaurants in between.

  Reuben always believed that Cynthia secretly enjoyed cooking for the two of them. It certainly proved her status as super-woman and, if she disliked preparing the occasional meal at home, she certainly did not show it. (In fact she did quite enjoy it, as long as it didn’t happen too often.)

  This particular Tuesday Reuben was fairly bursting with the news about the day’s developments in the Donovan matter. But he had long ago learned—as some of his Chase & Ward colleagues never had—that listening as well as talking was an essential part of marital discourse. Besides, leaving the best for last would add a nice element of surprise.

  Cynthia’s news was of a grant the Brigham Foundation was making to a Harlem art group for expanded after-sc
hool activities. Impressed with the organizers, whose enthusiasm made up for a great deal of naiveté and lack of practical business sense, she had helped them develop their grant proposal and had gently, but firmly, made them put it on a businesslike basis. The Foundation’s trustees had approved the grant that afternoon, with a minimum of the carping that could have been expected from some quarters of the board because of the past failures of a few community-based programs the Foundation had backed.

  “I really think this one is going to work, Reuben,” she told her husband. “If the people running it are rip-off artists or incompetents, I will be very surprised.”

  “Well, with all the accountants and lawyers you’ve brought into the thing, it ought to be fiscally responsible, anyway.”

  “One lawyer and one accountant,” she said. “And how was your day?”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Keep talking, I’ve just got to check the stove.”

  “I think we’ve cracked the Donovan case.”

  “Oh good God, wait till I get back!” came the cry from the kitchen. Instead, Reuben went into the kitchen and began his narrative of the day’s events, opening a bottle of wine as he did so.

  Reuben continued the story over dinner, with an occasional question from his wife.

  “Do I know Draper?” she asked.

  “Probably not. He’s been craving WASP respectability for years, and now he’s got a new blonde-bombshell wife who I suspect craves it even more. They’ve been at a couple of charity things we’ve been at, but I don’t think you’ve ever met them. Come to think of it, they’ve been at quite a few functions recently. But for this little hitch, I suspect it would not have been long before new wifey had a press agent and the Drapers made their big move from New Jersey to New York high society.”

  “Why is it always a new wife that starts the social ball rolling?”

  “Because the first wife had chapped hands from taking in washing, I suppose,” Reuben answered. “Besides, think of all the worthy organizations in this city—many of your favorites, by the way—that depend on parvenu money.”

  “You mean like Su—”