Murder for Lunch Page 8

  An impressive number of Chase & Ward’s nonlegal staff members also called to pay their respects—stenographers, file clerks, the office librarian, one or two of the older messengers. This was neither an easy nor a convenient thing for most of them to do, living as they did in the outer boroughs or the suburbs. As he greeted a steady stream of employees, he thought once again how wrong his former partners were who now regarded the firm, which had doubled in size over the past ten years, as a business to be conducted, at least as far as nonlawyers were concerned, like an impersonal corporation. And how wrong George Bannard was to float every idea he read in the Harvard Business Review as a potential reform at Chase & Ward; there were times when Frost thought that, if Bannard had his way, the firm would ultimately be run like a Japanese transistor factory.

  If the attendance by Chase & Ward employees that evening was any indication, the old feeling so noticeable to him as a younger man, that all were part of a Chase & Ward extended family, still had viability. As an Executive Partner he had done his best to foster that feeling, attending innumerable wakes for deceased employees, a few weddings, even a christening or two. Bannard might better, he thought, devote his time to activities like that than reading those crazy articles about Japanese business.

  The evidence of “family” feelings he saw around him made Frost the more uneasy as the evening went on—uneasy because of his inability to share his forebodings about the cause of Donovan’s death and uneasy because the Chase & Ward “family” might well be harboring a murderer. He was deeply relieved when the visiting hours were over and he could join Cynthia for supper at Prezzemolo, the latest in the seemingly never-ending succession of chic—and often very good—Italian restaurants opening on the Upper East Side.

  Bannard had called Frost late Wednesday evening, after returning from Chicago. Although Frost made it clear that there were no new developments to report, Bannard nonetheless asked Frost if he would come by the next morning to give him an “update” over breakfast. Frost reluctantly agreed, though he hated breakfast and throughout his career had done his best to avoid breakfast meetings. He had undoubtedly become oriented away from an early-morning schedule during the years when his wife had been an active performer. Elaine’s late at night was more to his liking than the Regency Dining Room at dawn. For his own part, Frost felt incapable of doing truly productive work early in the day and he secretly doubted that the advocates of breakfast meetings, including George Bannard, were any more capable of it.

  But, shortly after eight on Thursday morning, Frost walked up Park Avenue to Bannard’s apartment building. He remembered the apartment itself as being stuffed to the point of oppression with antiques; after Bannard had met him at the door and led him through to the dining room, Frost knew his memory had been correct. The rooms were so full that there were several areas where it was actually difficult to navigate.

  Whose taste did all this reflect? Eleanor’s, he supposed; at least she had full vision. Not that the objects were in bad taste, just that there were so many of them. Frost felt all the prouder of the less-is-more environment he and Cynthia had lovingly created in their townhouse, sparsely furnished with sleek modern furniture of the best design.

  Oh well, to each his own, Frost thought as he sat down at the dining room table beside Bannard, who was finishing off a large plate of scrambled eggs with gusto.

  “What would you like, Reuben?” Bannard asked.

  “Oh, just some toast and coffee.”

  “No juice?”

  “Already had some, thanks.”

  Bannard rang for the maid and repeated Frost’s modest request.

  “So we have trouble on our hands, do we?” Bannard asked.

  “It certainly looks that way, George. But we won’t be entirely sure until we hear from Doyle.”

  “He didn’t call you yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. I wonder why not? Should I try to get him now?”

  “It’s a bit early, you know,” Frost said, with some satisfaction. “But sure, try him.”

  Bannard went into the library to place the call. He was back almost at once to report that there was no answer.

  “That’s what I figured,” Frost said.

  “Reuben, I still can’t believe it. I know, I know what you saw, the muddy water and all. But it doesn’t make sense. People like Graham only get murdered in mystery stories or the movies, not in real life. Who the hell could have done it?”

  “George, I’ve thought a lot about that since yesterday noon. When someone’s murdered, you’re supposed to look for a motive, I believe. What could it be? Jealousy? Greed? Keeping Graham from revealing something? It’s hard to speculate.”

  Bannard looked at his watch. “Well, there’s no point in speculating until we’re sure. Meanwhile, we’d better get over to the church to see your Dr. Clark.”

  “Not my Dr. Clark, George. I’m making no representations or warranties about him at all, except that he seems willing to bury Graham.”

  Second Memorial Church was within walking distance of Bannard’s apartment. The two men set out together in the bright September sunshine. Both welcomed the chance for fresh air before entering the church, where they knew they would find the stifling smell of funeral bouquets.

  Once at the church, Bannard glanced impatiently at his watch once again. Nine-fifteen. Forty-five minutes before Graham Donovan’s funeral service was to begin. And here he was in something called the community room of the church, talking with Dr. Clark and Reuben Frost.

  Bannard had never met Dr. Clark, but he felt that he had, having read about him so frequently in the Times. Dr. Clark, the advocate of unilateral disarmament; Dr. Clark, outspoken foe of the Right To Life lobby; Dr. Clark, East Side reform Democratic leader; Rowland Clark, marathon runner; and, not to be overlooked, Rollo Clark, ragtime pianist and occasional nightclub performer. In fact, Bannard reflected, he had read about the carrot-haired figure before him in virtually every capacity except as spiritual leader of Second Memorial.

  The rector was approaching fifty, a fact he attempted to conceal with a modish styling of his red hair, a styling more appropriate to a Gentleman’s Quarterly model. He was pleasant enough, but Bannard found off-putting what appeared to be his transparently false air of sadness over Donovan’s death.

  “This must be very difficult for you gentlemen,” he said in a grave, stentorian tone. “But we will try to make things as easy as possible for you.”

  “We appreciate that, Rowland,” Frost said.

  “Graham Martin Donovan. Was he called Graham by his friends?”

  “Yes,” Bannard said.

  “And he was a partner of yours and Mr. Bannard’s?” the minister asked, turning to Frost.

  “Yes.”

  “At Chase & Ward, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of law did he practice?”

  “He was a corporate lawyer. A lawyer for businesses,” Bannard said, a strain of impatience showing in his voice.

  “Oh, yes. I read that in the Times,” Dr. Clark said.

  “May I ask why all the questions?” Bannard asked, now with greater impatience.

  “The eulogy, Mr. Bannard. After all, your partner was not a member of the Second Memorial community. So asking you questions is the only way I can gather the information I need.”

  “I see.”

  “And what about relatives? I take it there are none.”

  “Well, not quite. There is a son. An archaeology professor at NYU. But he has made it very clear he wants nothing to do with his father’s funeral,” Bannard explained.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not sure you would be if you had ever talked with him,” Bannard added.

  “Now, what about Graham’s favorite songs?” Rev. Clark asked, already calling the deceased by his first name.

  Frost, to whom the question had been directed, seemed temporarily nonplussed. Bannard filled the silence. “Favorite
songs?” Bannard was incredulous, and his feelings showed. Was this man running a dating service or a church?

  Dr. Clark laughed, a bit uneasily. “We have found it very effective to play one or two favorite songs of the deceased. It helps to bring his friends closer to him, to remember him better.”

  “By songs, what do you mean?” Bannard asked, treading into unknown territory. “Popular songs?”

  “Well, yes. Show songs and the like—things that Graham liked to sing or liked to dance to.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I knew Graham pretty, well, but I don’t think I ever heard him sing or request a song.”

  “Too bad. We’ll try to make do. Did Graham have a sense of humor?”

  “Oh yes. A somewhat cynical one, but a definite sense of humor,” Frost said. “Wouldn’t you agree, George?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed,” replied the man who more than once had been the target of a Donovan barb.

  Several of the partners entered the room, including Arthur Tyson and Peter Denny.

  “Is this where we’re supposed to be, George?” Denny asked.

  “That’s right. We’ll all march in together from here.”

  “Is there any particular order or anything? I’m too young to have done this before.”

  “What did you have in mind? The order of the letterhead? No there is no special order, is there, Reuben? Just line up two by two and try to look presentable going down the aisle.” Bannard turned to Tyson, who was combing his hair in front of a mirror at the side of the room. “Arthur, we’d better go.” The two of them left Dr. Clark and went out the door to the church proper.

  “So that’s the running holy man,” Tyson observed.

  “Yes. Just be glad you didn’t have to talk with him for fifteen minutes the way Reuben and I did.”

  “Difficult?”

  “No, just fatuous.”

  “George, what are we supposed to do here?”

  “Just get people to their seats. The first four rows on each side are for us and for Bruce, if he shows up, which I doubt. The spouses sit generally behind us, though there’s no assigned seating. As for the rest, just be nice to them—most are clients—and escort them down the aisle.”

  “How did Chicago go, by the way?” Tyson asked in a low voice.

  “Very interesting,” Bannard answered. “Sussman’s board got a little bit away from him. The board met to rubber-stamp the merger yesterday morning, but so many questions were raised that Sussman had to adjourn the meeting until his financial wizards could get together more information. They approved it in the end, but I’m not sure Bernie Sussman now has much good to say about the merits of having outside directors. Here come some customers. I’ll tell you more about it later.”

  As people began coming into the church, Bannard was disconcerted to hear the organ playing “Just One of Those Things.” My God, Bannard thought. I suppose this is meant to be one of Graham’s favorite songs. Give Dr. Clark credit for persistence, if not taste.

  Harold Knight, president of First Fiduciary, entered and shook Bannard’s hand vigorously.

  “George, I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear about Graham. I hate to think how many years we go back.”

  “I know, Harry. Sadly enough, so do I.”

  “All very sudden, wasn’t it, George?”

  Bannard agreed that it was, though Knight’s question made Bannard realize for the first time the embarrassment and agony the firm would suffer if Donovan had in fact been murdered. He left Knight at a front pew and hurried back to the rear of the church, where more and more people were coming in. In their midst he spotted Dwight Draper of Draper Chemicals. Given his antipathy to Draper, he tried to avoid him, but Draper rushed up to Bannard and clutched him by the arm.

  “What an awful thing, George,” he whispered confidentially in Bannard’s ear, gripping his arm as he did so. “Graham was like a brother to me. He helped me out almost from the first day I went into business. And he never gave me bad advice.” Draper poked Bannard’s chest for emphasis as he talked.

  “I’m sure that’s true, Dwight. We’re all going to miss him,” Bannard replied, coolly and correctly.

  “I still don’t believe it. Graham was in the best shape recently that I’ve seen him since Marjorie died. Why, I saw him Monday in fact, and he seemed to be absolutely thriving. Suntan, trim weight—at least trim for him—good spirits. But I guess when your time has come, your time has come.”

  Bannard inwardly winced at the inane cliché. Then winced again as the organ switched to “Embraceable You.”

  “You’ve got the finest law firm in the world, George,” Draper continued. “So I know you’ll survive. But Graham Donovan is going to be missed, let me tell you. Who can replace him? And who will replace him on the Draper Chemicals work?”

  Bannard was appalled at Draper’s attempt to talk business, but he couldn’t break away from the man. “Dwight, we really haven’t had time to discuss it.”

  “We rather like that young fellow, Phelan, who’s been helping Graham out.”

  The jam-up of people waiting for ushers in the back grew. “We’ll have to talk about this soon, Dwight. Now I’ve got to get to work.”

  “So I see. I’ll give you a call.” He touched Bannard’s arm once more. “Again, George, all my condolences.”

  “Thank you, Dwight.”

  Bannard hurried to the back. Somewhat to his surprise the church was getting quite full, with an odd mixture of people ranging from captains of industry to superannuated Chase & Ward messenger “boys” to Donovan’s maid. Most of the partners’ spouses were present too, including Anne Singer. Bannard was formally correct as he showed her to a seat next to Eleanor.

  As ten o’clock approached, Bannard returned to join his partners in the community room. Janet Hudders, one of the two women partners, was wearing a wool dress of an appropriately somber shade of gray. Most of her male counterparts were dressed in keeping with the occasion as well, the most notable exception being Larry Scott, who wore a bright blue shirt with a red and white striped tie. Bannard was not surprised at this lapse of taste. One had come to expect as much from Scott. As another partner had once remarked to Bannard, when God was passing out the goods Scott had stood too long in the ego line and not long enough in the civility line. His lack of taste and general boorishness were only tolerated because he was an extremely competent litigator.

  “All right, we’d better line up,” Bannard called out to the group. The partners began forming in twos amid a flurry of putting out cigarettes, brushing off lapels and buttoning suit coats.

  Reuben Frost approached Bannard. “You should be at the front, George.”

  “And you should be with me,” Bannard answered. They took places at the head of the column. As they walked toward the exit Bannard thought that, by and large, the assembled might of Chase & Ward looked pretty good. Lots of steel gray hair and an occasional paunch, but hardly a collection of the lame, the halt and the blind.

  Rev. Clark came into the room, wearing academic robes with a scarlet hood. Harvard? Bannard wondered. Probably.

  “Are we ready?” he asked Bannard.

  “Whenever you say, Dr. Clark.”

  “Okay, you go ahead.” He opened the door and the procession began filing out.

  Much to Bannard’s relief, the organist was not playing Cole Porter, but Bach’s Sleepers Awake. Bannard felt the eyes of the crowd on him as those on the aisle turned to view the Chase & Ward procession. When the lawyers were seated, Dr. Clark entered from the side and stood at a lectern.

  After a reading, which Bannard guessed to be from The Prophet (though he had never read it), and a hymn, Dr. Clark addressed the congregation.

  “My dear friends. We are gathered here today to celebrate. To celebrate the passing of our friend, Graham Donovan. Celebrate, you say? How can you use the word ‘celebrate’ to describe Graham’s untimely death?

  “Well, I don’t mean that we are celebrating Graham
Donovan’s death. No, no. We are celebrating Graham Donovan the man. Remembering the wonderful life he led. Remembering him as the friend he was.

  “A few moments ago, Mr. Collins, the organist, played a medley of Graham’s favorite songs—old songs, good songs. ‘Just One of Those Things.’ ‘Embraceable You.’ Cole Porter. Gershwin. Wonderful talent, and talent that Graham Donovan appreciated.

  “Graham had a style of living that cheered up those around him. He had spirit. He loved the joys of life, the pleasures of life.

  “And that marvelous sense of humor! Not a low comic’s sense of humor, not something off the vaudeville stage or the TV screen, but a subtle, vibrant sense of humor that made all of us the happier.”

  Us! Us! thought Bannard. Where does he get that from? He never met Donovan in his life! Bannard could barely contain his anger at Dr. Clark’s artificial performance. He shifted in his seat and glanced at Frost, sitting next to him. If Reuben was disturbed, he was not letting on. Frost was all attention as Dr. Clark continued.

  “Yes, Graham Donovan made many of us happier. Some of us he made better, as a wise counselor and dedicated lawyer. And some of us—yes, let us not deny it—some of us he made richer, again through his good counsel and advice.

  “We are all in Graham’s debt. He has touched us all in some way. So it is right that we celebrate him. That we celebrate this splendid man who walked amongst us.

  “Now let us stand for a moment of silence while we contemplate this good man’s life.”

  The congregation rose. Dr. Clark asked everyone to join hands as the organ began playing, softly, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Bannard was beside himself, listening to a Dixieland tune, holding hands with his seventy-four-year-old colleague and thinking of Graham’s murder.

  Fortunately the service soon ended with another poetry reading, this time from Emily Dickinson, and, for reasons totally unfathomable to Bannard, the communal singing of “America the Beautiful.”