Murder for Lunch Page 5

Bannard now surveyed the group and called Arthur Tyson aside. Tough lineman Arthur Tyson, the ideal match for policemen and coroners.

  “Arthur, can you stay around?” he asked.

  “Sure. Let me call my secretary to postpone a meeting I had at three. But yes, I can do it. Leave it to me, George. I’ll cut through the chickenshit in no time.” No red tape was going to delay Arthur Tyson for long.

  “I suppose the body should go to Frank Campbell’s,” Bannard said. “I’ll try to reach Graham’s son, but unless you hear otherwise that’s what I’d do.”

  “Good. I’ll call them while I’m waiting,” Tyson said. “By the way, who was Graham’s doctor, Stanley Hall?”

  “I think so. In fact, I’m sure of it. Graham mentioned visiting him just a couple of weeks ago.”

  Leaving Tyson hostage, Bannard turned to the remaining partners and said he thought it was time to leave. Then he saw the Rudenstine, Fried lawyer who had worked over Donovan. She was still trying to collect herself as Bannard approached her.

  “I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m George Bannard.”

  “I’m Angelica Post.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for what you tried to do.”

  “It was nothing. Really nothing, since it did no good.”

  “But you tried. That’s what’s important. And you knew more about what to do than any of us.”

  “Well, let’s hope I won’t have to do what I did again right away.”

  “I hope so, too. And Chase & Ward thanks Rudenstine, Fried.”

  Ms. Post smiled and turned away. Bannard turned toward the exit. His partners, like chastened—and slightly frightened—children, dutifully followed him out of the dining room.

  ARRANGEMENTS

  5

  Bannard reached his office, shut the door and began organizing his thoughts. He must call Donovan’s next of kin. Who was there? He thought a son—Bruce was it?—but was not entirely sure. He buzzed Mrs. Davis, his secretary, and asked her to find out if the boy’s name was indeed Bruce and to try and locate him.

  “If I’m not mistaken, he’s a professor at New York University,” Bannard told her. “Archaeology, I think.”

  Mrs. Davis was back on the line within minutes. The son’s name was indeed Bruce, he did teach at NYU, and he was holding on the line.

  Talking with Bruce Donovan was trying, to say the least.

  “So the old man’s dead is he? That’s a surprise,” he said to Bannard. Then, after a pause, he continued, “I can’t really say I’m heartbroken, Mr. Bannard. We were not on very good terms. Not on very good terms at all, in fact … Funeral? Have any kind you want, Mr. Bannard. But I doubt that I will be there … Why do I feel this way? Because, to put it bluntly, he was unspeakable to my mother. Unspeakable to her at a time when I couldn’t do anything about it. Made her suffer, made me humiliated. It would be the greatest hypocrisy in the world for me to go to his funeral. But thanks anyway for letting me know.”

  Bannard hung up on dutiful son Bruce with some relief, although realizing that he would get no help from junior; the funeral arrangements, the obituary—everything—were squarely in his lap.

  But how could he take care of all this and keep to his schedule? He was supposed to leave almost immediately for Chicago for an intensive meeting with his client, Bernard Sussman, and Sussman’s financial people. Sussman’s oil drilling company, Mid-Coast Enterprises, was in the process of considering the acquisition of a large and successful mail-order company. Not exactly a synergistic fit with oil drilling, but a chance to diversify and a chance to pick up a highly successful company that the smart young MBAs around the autocratic Sussman thought could be obtained at an attractive price. Sussman and his financial assistants and their investment banking advisers were scheduled to meet late in the afternoon in Chicago to review all the pros and cons of the proposed acquisition in preparation for a Mid-Coast Board of Directors meeting the next day. Bannard had to be there; it was a command performance. Sussman was excessively demanding but he paid his bills; Bannard could not beg off merely because one of his partners had died.

  What to do? Bannard closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, attempting to resolve his scheduling problem. Then he remembered that he had to open Donovan’s desk as well. He had never been sure where the charming custom had come from, but at Chase & Ward, when a partner died, the Executive Partner was expected to supervise going through the papers in the dead lawyer’s desk immediately. He had only had to do this once since becoming the Executive Partner, and while no surprises had been uncovered, he nonetheless found the prospect distasteful. Presumably there had been good reason for the tradition—some dark embarrassment deep in the past of the firm (which had been founded almost a century earlier) that could have been avoided had a prompt search of a deceased partner’s papers been made—and so he would carry it on.

  As he thought about his dilemma, it suddenly occurred to him that Reuben Frost might be able to help out. He knew that Frost thought he had been given short shrift when Bannard had taken over the firm and that Frost was still at best out of sorts. But he could still handle the details incident to Donovan’s death and burial; indeed, he might even get some quiet satisfaction out of dealing with the funeral arrangements of a man so many years his junior. Besides, there were those within the firm who admired Frost’s shrewd common sense and felt, he was sure, that Frost had been a better Executive Partner than he. So, dammit, let him do the necessary dirty work while he, Bannard, went off to do real legal work in Chicago. Bannard went down the hall to Frost’s office.

  “Reuben, can I come in?” Bannard asked, pushing Frost’s door open.

  “Of course, George. Sit down.” Frost swiveled his desk chair around to face Bannard, who was slightly embarrassed at the amount of room his large frame took up in the tiny office. It was clear that being the incumbent Executive Partner was better than being a former Executive Partner, at least in terms of square feet.

  “Helluva thing about Graham, wasn’t it? But I guess there’s nothing could be done. That girl from Rudenstine, Fried seemed to know what she was doing, and she couldn’t save him,” Frost noted. “Have you talked to his boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Anne?”

  “Anne? Anne who?” Bannard’s voice became higher as he tried to play dumb.

  “Oh, come now, George. Anne Singer. Surely you knew she and Graham were fiddling around,” Frost said.

  I did, but how did you? Bannard felt like saying. But he let the matter pass. “No, I didn’t. I figure Roger will tell her soon enough.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Frost paused, then shook his head. “You know, I’m quite taken aback. When my old friends die these days, there’s no surprise there. Just what’s expected. But I’m surprised about Graham. Except for his weight, he always seemed to take care of himself. Not like your ferret friend Coxe. He gets shakier every day, and I’m sure the shakes come in a bottle with ‘gin’ written on it.”

  “Now, Reuben, Fred has always been a nervous type. I don’t see any evidence that he’s drinking too much.”

  “You wouldn’t. He’s your little toady.” Frost sighed. “But I guess you were just following my advice.”

  “What do you mean, Reuben?”

  “Remember, when you became Executive Partner, I told you to get two or three partners that you really trusted, that you really could rely on, and use them as a sort of executive committee? Well, you’ve done that, though I’m not sure the ones you picked are the ones I would have picked.”

  “Maybe not, Reuben, but they’re the ones I trust. Including Coxe.”

  “Of course including Coxe. He’s the biggest ass-kisser in kingdom come. Has he ever said no to you about anything?”

  “No, I can’t say that he has,” Bannard said, a slight defensive edge to his voice. “But I value his advice and I want him there to help me.”

  “Fair enough. But why have you come to see me?”

  �
��Reuben, I’m in a helluva fix. I’ve got to leave for Chicago for an important meeting with Bernard Sussman later this afternoon. And there seem to be a thousand and one details about Graham that have to be looked after.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as arranging his funeral. When I talked to his son, he informed me that he had no intention of attending his father’s funeral, let alone arranging it. Seems he and Graham weren’t on speaking terms.”

  “Any reason?”

  “The way Graham treated Marjorie before she died. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Not a thing,” Frost said.

  “Then there’s the matter of opening Graham’s desk. And arranging the obituary. I know it’s an imposition, but I want to leave all these things in your lap.”

  “Sure. Glad to,” Frost answered. “Let’s start with the funeral arrangements. Wasn’t Graham a Catholic?”

  “I think he was brought up as one. But you remember he was married twice. First time to a little Italian girl I scarcely remember; didn’t last long. Then to Marjorie. I do remember he married her at City Hall, so it doesn’t appear that he was much of a Catholic.”

  “I’m not so sure, George. I don’t know much about it, but I gather the Church of Rome isn’t quite as rigid as it used to be. But anyway, assuming you’re right, what do we do?”

  “We could have him cremated and have a memorial service later on, up at Columbia, or something like that,” Bannard said.

  “No, we should have a real funeral. There’s my rector up at St. Justin’s. I could ask him, but he is so mellifluously unctuous that I would prefer not to. How about Dr. Clark up at Second Memorial? Very nondenominational, and he will bury anybody.”

  “You know him?”

  “Sure. He used to be on the board of the Gotham Club with me. Want me to call him?”

  “That would be splendid, Reuben. When should we have the funeral?”

  “Well, there’s no family to worry about, so I say the sooner the better,” Frost said.

  “Thursday morning? Is that too soon?”

  “No, I don’t think so. What time?”

  “How about eleven?”

  “Bad for the office, George. Means people have to come here first and then go uptown. Or worse, they don’t come to work at all and go directly to the church. I’d vote for ten.”

  “Should we close the office?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Bannard said. “I’ve never figured out when we do and when we don’t.”

  “Oh come, come, George. Think about it. We closed the office when Holderness and McKeon died, but not when Larrimore did. What does that tell you?”

  “Well, Holderness and McKeon both were very active right up to the time they died, while Larrimore didn’t contribute all that much.”

  “Contribute. Contribute. You’ve got the idea. There are many intangible rewards to practising law as we do—it’s good clean work and often exciting. But every so often dollars and cents make themselves felt, sometimes in subtle ways we don’t even think about. Holderness brought business in and McKeon helped to hold what we had. Poor Larrimore did neither very effectively. So we didn’t close the office for his funeral.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that simple. Larrimore just wasn’t very popular.”

  “But why?” Frost asked. “Because he was a drone and absolutely no good at bringing in business.”

  “Well, I would argue with you. But whatever the criteria, I guess we should close the office for Graham.”

  “All the more reason to have the service at ten.”

  “Should we march?” Bannard asked.

  “Match? Match what?”

  “No, Reuben, march. Should the partners all march in as a group?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I would say yes,” Bannard said.

  “I agree. Most often it’s left up to the widow. But that doesn’t apply here. Usually the widow has known her husband’s partners over the years and wants that show of loyalty or solidarity or whatever you want to call it. But occasionally you get one who hates the firm, hates the demands it made on her husband, hates everything about it. Holderness’s widow, for example. We were barely allowed to come to the funeral, let alone march in a body.”

  “Well, Graham was a stalwart of the firm and I believe loved it. We should march.”

  “What about the ushers?” Frost asked.

  “Aren’t they usually partners?”

  “Yes. Usually contemporaries, except in this case you have the touchy matter of Roger Singer.”

  “Don’t we have to ignore that? Wouldn’t excluding Roger make things look worse?”

  “You’re probably right. And you’ll also have to include Donovan’s great friend, Arthur Tyson. He’s a contemporary, though one could hardly call him Donovan’s best friend. You should also be an usher, George, as you know the clients well.”

  “What about inviting people?”

  “Absolutely. And someone should get started right away. How about your toady Fred? He’d be good at that.”

  “Reuben—”

  “Never mind. Put him to work on it as soon as I clear the time with the minister. You should make sure all the people at Graham’s major clients know about it. Joe Mather at Stephens Industries—”

  “Harry Knight at First Fiduciary Bank—”

  “And I suppose that fellow with the chemical company, what’s his name?” Frost asked.

  “Draper. Dwight Draper. Draper Chemicals. I’ve never liked the fellow myself. Every time I’ve ever met him he’s always told me what a wonderful firm Chase & Ward is, how wonderful everybody here is, how wonderful I am, et cetera. And he says all those smarmy things in a manner about as sincere as Dick Nixon’s.”

  “I know all that, George. Our lives all would be pleasanter if all our clients were people we would want to have as our best friends. But probably not at all as involving. Not all the interesting people in this town are to be found at the Racquet Club bar. Or even any of them, for that matter.” Frost chuckled at his own joke. WASP though he was, the Racquet Club types were intensely boring to him.

  “Reuben, you’re probably right. But I draw the line at Draper. He tries so hard to ingratiate himself that he really makes you sick. I never could understand how Graham put up with him.”

  “My guess is that Graham put up with him because he was proud of having gotten him started. Draper was nothing, a chemical engineer from some tank-town university—in Pennsylvania, I think. No money, just a lot of hustle and apparently a damned good idea for making a line of industrial chemicals cheaper than the majors, like Du Pont or Dow. Somehow he made friends with Harry Knight, who loaned him enough to get started in the chemicals business. Harry told Dwight that he should get a good lawyer and recommended Graham. Graham took him on as a favor to Harry, but at the same time Draper was probably the first real client Graham had on his very own. In circumstances like that, it would have been very hard to get rid of him later, even assuming Graham wanted to. Draper got rich—at least in comparison to where he came from. And once he got rich he wanted to be buddies with the big boys—among whom he includes, rightly or wrongly, the likes of you and me. And besides, I’ve never heard that he was anything but honest.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I still don’t like him. But God knows he should be at Graham’s funeral if anyone is.”

  Bannard got up and began pacing the room, as was his habit.

  “Is that it?” Bannard said. “You’ll call your minister friend, right? We’ll try for 10 A.M. Thursday. I’ll send around a notice asking the partners to march in a body and ask Roger and Arthur to be ushers with me. Why don’t you and Fred try to draw up a list of those to ask? That would help me a lot.”

  “Of course, George,” Reuben answered agreeably.

  “Oh, and Reuben, what about the dinner dance on Saturday? Should that be canceled, do you think?”

  “Good God, I forgot a
ll about it. That’s a tough one. You could postpone it, but it will be hard to get a decent place to have it at this late date. A lot of the younger lawyers would be disappointed too, I think, since they plan ahead for the thing. Besides, Graham always liked a good party and would not have wanted to be the cause of not going ahead.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “We used to have the dance around Thanksgiving, you recall. I remember the year John Kennedy was shot and we were supposed to have the dance a week later. We went ahead with it, but it was a little embarrassing.”

  “I had forgotten that. I say let’s go ahead as planned.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control, George. But what about Graham’s desk?”

  “I know, I know. I was hoping you could take care of that, too.”

  Frost nodded.

  “How the hell did that ghoulish custom start, anyway?” Bannard asked.

  “I don’t know whether there was a specific reason or not. I suppose one theory is you might find an unexpected suicide note, or burial instructions, or something like that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “All I can say is, during the years when I was Executive Partner, I went through the ritual four—no, five—times and the only thing I ever found of any interest at all was a small pornography collection locked in Ray McKeon’s desk. I suspect performing the ritual this time will be pretty uneventful.”

  Bannard agreed with his predecessor and left, telling Frost that he could be reached if necessary at Sussman’s office or the Chicago Ritz.

  After Bannard’s departure, Reuben Frost felt a curious sense of well-being. Was it simply because he had been found useful once again? Or perhaps because George Bannard was demonstrating that arranging a funeral was beyond him? Whatever the reason, he must get organized. What to do first? He guessed he should talk to Grace Appleby, Donovan’s secretary. She deserved to be told about her boss’s death and could also tell him if he had been a practicing Catholic.

  (Besides, Frost was more than a little curious to see Appleby. She had been around the firm for years and he had known her from the earliest days when she had been in the typing pool. But now he wanted to talk with her, knowing that she might be the culprit in the Stephens Industries matter. She could easily have diverted the controversial press release on its way to the office files and made a copy without anyone else knowing. There was no reason to think Miss Appleby was anything but an upstanding—if, from many accounts, a somewhat disagreeable—woman. But she still was a suspect.)