Murder Takes a Partner

by Haughton Murphy

  While Reuben was speaking, Cynthia carefully examined the chart he had made, putting on her reading glasses to do so. When he had finished, she looked up and spoke to the two men.

  “I’m afraid, my dear, I disagree with you. Andrea may well be the most promising suspect. But I don’t see how you can dismiss the others quite so easily,” Cynthia said.

  “But Cynthia, we have to set priorities, and after Luis’ intelligence-gathering in Syracuse, top priority should be Andrea Turnbull,” Reuben replied, somewhat impatiently.

  “Very well,” Cynthia went on. “But can I perhaps add to what you have here on the chart? While you two have been touring around the country, I’ve done a little spadework myself.”

  “By all means, let’s hear about it,” Reuben said.

  “Let’s start with Teresa Holt, Reuben. ‘Pent-up hatred,’ you say, and I agree that isn’t very good. But I had drinks with her yesterday and it became quite clear that she knew Clifton was about to change his will—and to cut off her financial support as well. I know you had a different impression, Reuben, but she was very explicit with me.

  “And another thing,” Cynthia went on. “She told me—and I believe she had already told you, Reuben—that she had been in California for six weeks. Yet she said how wonderful Hailey Coles had been in Summer Sonata. It occurred to me that the girl has danced that ballet only recently. I checked the office this afternoon, and I was right. The only times she has ever danced the part were at two performances three weeks ago. Now, maybe Teresa was making it up about seeing Hailey in the part, maybe she was just parroting the reviews; but maybe she had seen her and was back in New York before Clifton was murdered. Now, all that should be pretty easy to find out, shouldn’t it, Luis?” The detective nodded. “But I think it is something that should be checked before we scratch her name out.

  “Who should we talk about next?” Cynthia demanded.

  “Good God, Cynthia, do you have something to say about everyone?” Frost asked.

  “Yes, I believe I do. Except Gerald Hazard. But I didn’t know he was on your list until tonight.”

  “All right, what about Mattison?” Reuben challenged.

  “There you’ve struck my weakest point,” she answered. “I watched him at the screening of Vivian Brooks’s movie last night. There we were waiting for the movie to start and we had to wait until he arrived. Can you imagine what that kind of power must be like, especially when it feeds a gigantic ego? I couldn’t help but think how truly damaging to Mattison revelation of his plagiarism would be. It wouldn’t just end a tiny little newspaper career; it would, in Mattison’s mind, end his mighty reign over public opinion. Just an observation, I know, but I wouldn’t forget about my dear friend Arthur.”

  “How was the movie, by the way?” Reuben asked.

  “Absolutely terrible. But we can talk about that later.”

  “What about Arne?”

  “That’s more complicated than you think, Reuben. You have down here as a motive ‘artistic advancement.’ That’s true enough as far as it goes. But Clifton Holt was doing everything he could to keep Arne from seeing Vivian Brooks. Don’t ask me why, but he was. It’s clear to me that Arne was absolutely tortured by Clifton, who made his trips to the coast to see Vivian as difficult to arrange as possible.”

  Bautista asked about Vivian Brooks, whose name he had not heard mentioned before. Cynthia explained the actress’ bicoastal involvement with Petersen. When she had done so, her husband asked her whom she wanted to savage next.

  “Reuben, I’m not trying to savage anyone,” she responded coolly. “I’m trying to solve a murder—and save the morale of a ballet company. And just possibly our physical well-being, too.”

  “I’m sorry, Cynthia. Please proceed,” Reuben said.

  “Shall I tell you about Veronica Maywood?” Cynthia asked. “She conducted Company class yesterday, and I had lunch with her afterward. I learned that she was desperate—desperate and depressed—about Holt’s attitude toward her dancing. Despite the success of their artistic partnership, it seemed clear, or at least it seemed clear to her, that Holt was going to dump her. That Laura Russell was to be the new favorite.”

  “But we knew that already, Cynthia,” Reuben said, again with some impatience.

  “But what we didn’t know,” Cynthia continued, ignoring her husband’s comment, “is that Veronica was made even more desperate by a failed love affair—with a dope addict who died of an overdose a couple of weeks before Clifton was killed.”

  “Overdose?” Bautista asked. “You mean of heroin, I assume?”

  “That’s what she said. She admitted that she was a cocaine user, though she said only in the ‘off season.’ And she claimed she didn’t know that her rich, stockbroking boyfriend was an addict until shortly before they broke up.”

  “When was that?” Bautista asked.

  “About six months ago, she told me.”

  Reuben picked up his chart. Under “Access to Wilson” another question mark potentially dropped away. Wasn’t it possible that “through boyfriend” could be added after Maywood’s name?

  “What was this fellow’s name?” Bautista asked.

  “Oh, dear, I vowed I would remember it,” Cynthia said. “Ryan, Ryerson—no, Reyman. Bernard Reyman. Worked at Hughes & Company.”

  “And he died of an overdose?” Bautista asked.

  “Apparently.”

  “When?”

  “Three weeks ago,” Cynthia answered.

  Bautista was again taking notes.

  “She also said everyone had covered the whole thing up,” Cynthia added.

  “We’ll see about that,” Bautista answered.

  “All right, Cynthia, we’re almost through the roster,” her husband said. “What about Navikoff? What have you got new on him?”

  “Not much, darling. Except that I was walking down Madison Avenue this afternoon when what, to my wond’ring eyes, should appear …”

  “But?”

  “But Jack Navikoff walking arm-in-arm—and I emphasize that, arm-in-arm—with Andrea Turnbull.”

  “Good Lord,” Reuben said.

  “He probably was just trying to hit her up for a loan,” Cynthia continued. “But isn’t it just possible that the two of them teamed up to have Clifton killed, each of them reinforcing the other as they talked themselves into their mad plot?”

  “What did you do? Did you talk to them?” Reuben asked.

  “I ducked into the Bermuda Shop—I’d never been in there in my life—and looked at bathing suits. I’m pretty sure they didn’t see me.”

  “Is that all, Cynthia?” Bautista said. “You’ve given us quite a news broadcast here.”

  “I believe it is,” Cynthia replied. “I hope you don’t think I’ve been interfering.”

  “No,” Bautista said. “I can’t say that. But after what you’ve told us, I don’t think we can rip up Reuben’s chart quite yet.”

  “Nor do I,” Reuben conceded. “My dear, you must have had fifty-five drinks yesterday.”

  “Not quite, darling, though I felt about ready for the Betty Ford Clinic.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Bautista said. “It’s been a long, long day. Let me try to digest all this and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Let me see you out,” Reuben said.

  “Good night, Luis. And love to Francisca,” Cynthia said.

  She started up the stairs to the third floor and Reuben went down to the front door with Bautista.

  “Are we making any progress?” Frost asked. “It certainly doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Gridlock,” Bautista said. “Everybody looks as guilty as everybody else. But don’t worry, Reuben, even gridlock ends sometime. Let’s just hope it’s soon.”

  “Amen, amen.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  21

  BANKERS

  Reuben was scarcely up Friday morning when the telephone rang, shortly after nine o’clock. It was W
illiam Burbank, the head of Hughes & Company. Although they were roughly the same age, Burbank was, unlike Frost, still very much in command of his firm, one of the few investment-banking houses left that had not gone public or been swallowed up by a giant conglomerate.

  Hughes & Company, and Burbank personally, had been longtime clients of Chase & Ward. And Burbank had also been Frost’s staunch ally in the maneuvers that had led to construction of the Zacklin Theatre.

  The banker apologized for calling Frost so early at home. He said that he had called Frost’s office, but that the secretary who answered did not know whether Frost would be in or not.

  “Are you now fully retired?” Burbank asked. “I thought you still came in every day.”

  “No, I’m not fully retired,” Frost shot back over the line. “I go into the office two or three times a week. But I do think at my age I’ve earned the right to do some other things.” So there, Burbank, you aged workaholic, Frost thought.

  “You’re still involved with NatBallet, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed I am,” Reuben answered.

  “Reuben, are you free this morning? Could you come down and see me? Something extremely delicate has come up that I’d like to talk with you about. But I’d prefer to do it in person, if that’s possible.”

  “Of course. What time would be convenient?”

  “I think the sooner the better,” Burbank said.

  Frost, who was not yet dressed, looked at his watch. “I could be there at ten-fifteen, ten-thirty.”

  “Fine, let’s say ten-fifteen. Come to the thirty-eighth floor.”

  “I remember, Bill.”

  Frost was in the reception area outside Burbank’s office at ten-fifteen precisely. If Burbank was anxious, so was he. Was his old friend about to seek advice concerning an insider trading scandal, or some other disaster threatening Hughes & Company? No, Frost guessed, it was much more likely that Burbank’s “extremely delicate” matter involved Bernard Reyman. If so, Clifton Holt’s murder might be a step nearer to solution.

  “Reuben! Thanks for coming down here so fast,” Burbank said, as he burst forth from his office and shook Frost’s hand with enthusiasm. Frost, who was in perfectly good health, nonetheless envied the banker’s obvious vigor. Ramrod-straight, he was wearing a finely tailored double-breasted pinstripe suit.

  “You been away, Bill?” Frost asked. “You’re looking very tan.”

  “Martinique. We’re in a rut. Harriet and I’ve been going there every year for seventeen years.”

  “It looks like it agrees with you.”

  “It does,” Burbank said, as he closed the door to his office. He got down to business at once, as Frost sat down in the chair in front of Burbank’s desk. “I hope I didn’t unduly alarm you this morning. But something’s come up I think you ought to know about.”

  “Fire away,” Frost said.

  “I have to explain a little bit. About three weeks ago, one of our crackerjack salesmen, fellow named Reyman, was found dead in his apartment up in the Village. It turned out—and this is very confidential, Reuben, we managed to keep it quiet at the time—that Reyman died of a heroin overdose.”

  The banker spun out the story for Frost. How everyone had liked Reyman, and no one suspected him of being an addict. How he was found dead in his Village apartment, without any survivors. How a young staff lawyer, Jerry Hayes, had to look after the situation in the absence of family. How the police had been around the day before, asking about Reyman and checking out a list of names. How the police had not given out any information other than that the dead stockbroker’s name had appeared in a dope peddler’s address book and that they were investigating a homicide.

  “Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately,” Burbank continued, “Jerry Hayes, our staff lawyer, was out of the office at a meeting when the police came. So they went away and said they’d talk to Hayes sometime today. When he got back here late yesterday afternoon, I went over with him the names the police had asked about—I’d taken care to write them down. To my surprise, Hayes said there was a connection to one of them—your star ballerina, Veronica Maywood. He thought he remembered seeing an autographed picture of her in Reyman’s apartment.”

  “Is that all?” Frost asked, with impatience.

  “No, it isn’t,” Burbank said, reaching into a folder on his desk and handing Frost a single piece of paper. “There is this.”

  Frost examined the document. It was a demand promissory note, dated a month earlier, in the amount of $24,000. It was payable to Reyman—and signed by Veronica Maywood.

  Frost could feel his heart racing beneath his shirt.

  “I wanted to tell you about it, Reuben, because it’s obvious there’s some sort of scandal brewing here. I thought with a little warning you might be able to head off whatever it is.”

  “Bill, I appreciate your efforts. It’s a scandal, all right, but there’s no way to suppress it that I know of. But so be it. The important thing is to have it over and done with and behind us.”

  “And this promissory note does that?” Burbank asked.

  “It certainly helps,” Frost replied. “Is there a telephone I can use? I really should make a call about this right away.”

  “Use the one on the coffee table over there.”

  “But I don’t want to disturb you.”

  “Hell, forget it. Take as long as you like, Reuben.”

  Frost moved over to the sofa at the side of the room and dialed Bautista’s private number, then explained his new find when the detective answered.

  “Reyman and Maywood, heh?” Bautista said. “I’ve already called the manager at the First Fiduciary branch we traced the twenty-four G’s to and told him to check out Bernard Reyman in his forty-seven eighty-nine files. Is your friend still there?”

  “Yes. I’m in his office.”

  “Ask him if he has a photograph of Reyman,” Bautista requested. Frost lowered the receiver and asked Burbank the question.

  “I’m sure we do. I know we do, come to think of it, because I saw his personnel file after he died. I’ll double-check, though,” Burbank said. He called his secretary on the office intercom as Frost resumed his telephone conversation.

  “He’s sure they have one,” Frost told the detective.

  “Good. I’ll be down to get it right away. Where are you?”

  “Thirty-eighth floor, Forty-six Wall Street. Hughes & Company. Mr. William Burbank.”

  “Oh, Reuben, one other thing. How can I get a picture of Veronica Maywood in street clothes? Nobody at the bank recognized her in her ballet picture. But they might in street clothes,” Bautista said.

  “Call Cynthia. She keeps the family photo album. And I know there are some shots of Veronica in there,” Frost said. Pictures from some very happy occasions, he thought sadly.

  “Oh, and Luis,” Frost went on, “a couple of your colleagues are supposed to come down here today to talk to people about Reyman and Veronica. It seems like a waste of time to me until you check up at the bank.”

  “I agree. I’ll call them off.”

  “Thanks.” Frost put down the telephone.

  “Is that the police you’re talking to?” Burbank asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And do I understand they’re not going to talk to Hayes?” Burbank asked, making no effort to conceal that he had been listening to Frost’s conversation.

  “That’s right. But another homicide detective, a friend of mine named Luis Bautista, is coming down here now to collect that picture of Reyman,” Frost explained.

  “Fine. We have it.”

  “Good. Shall I wait outside, Bill? I don’t want to take up more of your time.”

  “Heavens no, Reuben. I’m king of the roost here. I can do as much or as little as I want. And right now I want to talk to my old friend,” Burbank said expansively. “Or rather, I wish my old friend would talk to me and tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “I would, Bill, but it’s just too delicate.
If things develop as I think they will, you’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  “Will the circumstances of Reyman’s death come out, you think?” Burbank asked anxiously.

  “I suspect they will,” Frost said.

  “Damn. After all the trouble we took to keep this thing quiet. I should have known. Anything that involves dope is bound to be trouble. You have much of a dope problem over at your place?”

  “I don’t believe we have any,” Frost said.

  “You mean that, Reuben?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You’re naive. I suppose you think that dope’s illegal so none of your bright young lawyers would ever touch it?”

  “That’s right,” Frost said.

  “You really are naive,” Burbank said. “It’s one of the biggest problems we have. Not heroin so much, thank God, but marijuana all over the place, and plenty of people with real problems with cocaine—and now this new stuff, crack. And I just don’t believe we’re any better or worse off than any other banking firm, or your law firm.”

  “I guess I’ve never thought about it,” Frost said. “The subject has just never come up.”

  “Well, God bless you.”

  “If there is a problem, why do you think it’s so widespread?” Frost asked.

  “I’ve got a couple of theories,” Burbank answered. “First, look at the money these kids make. Your young lawyers, our young MBAs. They’ve got disposable income to burn. Do they save it? No. Why should they? When every apartment they might buy costs a million bucks, there’s no point in saving. The only way you can afford a million-dollar apartment is to claw your way up to a millionaire’s income. Some of them will get that—they’ll become partners in their firms, the big successes. And those that don’t, they’ll lower their sights and slink off somewhere else. But savings? Forget it. Buy coke instead!”