Murder for Lunch

by Haughton Murphy

  Frost had “borrowed” Griffith to work on a hurry-up merger transaction just before his own retirement as a partner but otherwise knew him, except for his recent contact with the youth’s mortgage draft, only by reputation. His earlier brief encounter—the whole transaction had been signed up over the course of a long weekend—had led Frost to respect Griffith’s abilities, if not necessarily to like him. There was just a bit too much of the blood lust for Frost’s taste, just a shade too much competitiveness and desire to devour an adversary.

  Of course, the name of the game was to represent one’s client to the fullest, but as he had grown older, Frost came more and more to the view that there was a real difference between the hand-to-hand combat of courtroom litigation and the negotiating process that characterized most of the corporate department’s work. The litigator was trained to stall and delay, to conduct a war of attrition against an opponent; the corporate lawyer was normally subject to quite opposite demands—to do a deal in a hurry, to get an agreement drafted, negotiated and signed before circumstances shifted or a party changed his mind. Many corporate lawyers—and not all of them in Kokomo, either—never learned this basic distinction. More often than not in any transaction there would be a lawyer less concerned with getting the deal done (chances are the same lawyer would use the word finalize) than with scoring largely unimportant points for his client.

  Griffith had some of this aggressive, win-all-the-points quality and Frost had had to act as the peacemaker more than once in the transaction Griffith had worked on for him. Yet Griffith was smart, there was no question about that.

  Griffith, when he entered Frost’s office, had just been to the Chase & Ward cafeteria and was carrying a cup of coffee.

  “Perry, do you have a minute?” Frost asked.

  “Sure,” Griffith replied noncommittally.

  “Then sit down. Here’s your draft of the Frontier mortgage with my marks on it. I’ll be right back, once I get a cup of coffee myself.”

  Minutes later Frost returned and found Griffith sipping his coffee and looking over the marked-up mortgage.

  “Reuben, I’m sorry about the screwup on those Trust Indenture provisions. Austin said I should get my draft to you right away and I did not have a chance to recheck them before I gave it to you.”

  “My boy, never complain, never explain,” Frost said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Frost laughed. “Just an old office expression Charlie Chase, the original author of that mortgage, was fond of. I’ll accept your explanation, but he never would. He probably would have ripped up your draft right before your eyes—all three hundred pages of it. And in the days before the Xerox, that might have been the end of it—and the end of you.”

  “Well, then I’m glad it’s you and not Charles Chase honchoing this one,” Griffith said.

  “Anyway, except for the Trust Indenture glitch, your draft looks pretty good. At least it reads as if written in this century—perhaps not in the 1980s, but certainly 1910.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why don’t you look over my comments and let’s talk about them on Monday. Feedback, I believe it’s called.”

  “Feedback?”

  “Yes, feedback. Someone told me that that’s what all young lawyers want. Feedback. Criticism of their work by their skilled and senior mentors—as long as the criticism isn’t too severe.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. I guess I was just surprised that you knew the term. No, I look forward to feedback. Not everybody can have their work vetted by Reuben Frost.”

  “Quite true. So, as far as the mortgage goes, let’s talk Monday. You’ll also see that I outlined some redrafting for you on the release provisions. I think we can streamline the procedures for getting property out from under the mortgage in the future.”

  Griffith started to get up.

  “Don’t go, Perry. I have something else very serious to talk over with you.”

  Frost had made up his mind to bring Griffith into the Donovan case. Ambitious associates were great information gatherers, sifting every morsel of gossip and rumor for nuggets that might enrich their status. It was just such gossip and rumor that might prove useful to Frost if he was going to continue to pursue the Donovan investigation, as he had known he would since talking with Detective Bautista the day before. Bannard, eager as he was for a solution—and right he was about that—was probably temperamentally unable to conduct a discreet inquiry, and surely his crippled Executive Committee was not. Besides, Frost secretly acknowledged to himself, cracking the mystery would be sweet revenge for Bannard’s post-retirement slights.

  “What I have to say is extremely confidential,” Frost said. “I must ask you not to tell anyone—anyone, including your wife—what I am about to say to you. Is that understood?”

  “Of course,” Griffith replied evenly, looking straight at Frost.

  “It’s about Graham Donovan’s death,” Frost continued. “Contrary to what you have heard, it appears that Donovan was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Griffith repeated, an incredulous look on his face. “Didn’t he die while he was having lunch? How could he be murdered?”

  “A fair question. But just listen and I’ll tell you,” Frost said. He then went on to retell the story of the poisoned carafe; as he did so, Griffith’s expression continued to reflect his incredulity. “Now, having heard the story, what do you think?” Frost concluded.

  “What do I think? I’m too shocked to think anything. It’s absolutely incredible that Graham Donovan was murdered. It doesn’t make any sense,” Griffith said.

  “I certainly agree with you there,” Frost said. “But now that you know what happened, do you have any ideas who might have done it?”

  Griffith shrugged. “Absolutely none,” he said. “I just can’t imagine such a thing happening.”

  “Well, the police officer in charge of the case said it will only be solved if people keep their eyes and ears open. Perry, that is what I want you to do. As an associate who knows his way around here, you’re much more likely to hear things than any of us partners.”

  “I’ll certainly do my best,” Griffith said. “But right now I’m afraid I haven’t got even a suspicion to go on.”

  “That’s all right. Just keep your eyes and ears open. And your mouth shut.” Frost stared directly at the young lawyer. Griffith returned his stare, then got up and tossed his coffee cup in the wastebasket beside Frost’s desk.

  “You never liked Graham, did you?” Frost said, as Griffith was turning toward the door. Frost’s question made him turn back.

  “Correction. Graham Donovan didn’t like me,” Griffith said.

  “How do you know that?” Frost asked.

  “He told me. I’d been working for Graham for almost two years—working for him hard, I might add—when we had our little annual chat at raise time. He told me how much he appreciated my work—my ‘very excellent’ work, he called it—but said that in all candor he had to tell me that he could not recommend me for partnership in the firm.”

  Griffith paused; recounting what must have been an unpleasant conversation was clearly a strain. “I felt like a knocked-over bowling pin,” Griffith continued, his voice picking up both speed and animation. “This was the first time in five years at Chase & Ward that anyone had ever said a negative thing about my work.”

  “And you didn’t hate him for that?” Frost asked.

  “No … no, I don’t think I hated him. I was just sorry things turned out the way they did. I think he was wrong and I don’t think he was fair to me, but I didn’t hate him.” Griffith was choosing his words carefully, as if he had not considered the question of his feelings toward Donovan before. Then, suddenly, he seemed for the first time to realize the import of Frost’s question. “And if you mean did I dislike him enough to kill him, the answer is no. There may be many ways to a partnership, Reuben, but murder isn’t one of them, thank you very much.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you, P
erry. I wasn’t accusing you,” Frost said with a sigh. Seemingly mollified, Griffith left the office. But accusation or no, Frost did not cross Griffith’s name off the list of suspects.

  Frost turned to the problem of finding out from Grace Appleby who had visited Donovan’s office Tuesday morning. He had all but given up on the possibility of concealing Donovan’s murder from her—assuming she did not, for the obvious reason, already know about it. Appleby had seen the stain made by the poisoned water from Donovan’s carafe during the desk-opening episode. It simply was not now possible to ask her who had had access to Donovan’s office and the water carafe just before his death without leading her to the inevitable conclusion of murder.

  A week earlier, Frost would have had no hesitation in enlisting Appleby’s help in finding Donovan’s killer; a trusted, loyal employee, completely devoted to her boss, she would in fact have been one of the first people he would have turned to. But Doyle’s revelations about her stock trading had changed all that. She had not only engaged in activity for which she would have to be fired, once the murder investigation was out of the way, but had become a prime suspect in that investigation.

  Frost would have preferred not to reveal to Appleby that Donovan had been murdered—or, more precisely, that he knew Donovan had been murdered. If the woman had in fact done the poisoning, his inquiries would accomplish nothing and merely alert her to his knowledge. And even if she hadn’t, he instinctively did not want to share confidences of any kind with a woman that the firm would soon have to fire. But there seemed no way out and perhaps, Frost thought, her behavior will be revealing when she finds out what I know.

  Appleby looked drawn and slightly haggard when she came to Frost’s office. Urged by the stenographic supervisor to take some time off, she had refused, saying that she preferred to remain at work just for the present, clearing out files and otherwise disposing of Donovan’s presence at Chase & Ward. But the strain of the end of her “marriage” showed in her puffy eyes and pale face.

  “Good morning, Mr. Frost,” she said as she came into the office. She took a seat without being asked, seeming to know that her encounter with Frost would be more than a few words on the run.

  “Grace, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you once again,” Frost said. She did not respond, so he continued, having decided to tell her directly about the murder. “All evidence is that Graham Donovan was murdered.”

  Again the woman did not respond, but began crying silently. She took a handkerchief from inside her sleeve, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s awful,” she said. “Just awful.” She continued to cry, but finally seemed to get control of herself.

  “I knew it. I knew it as soon as I saw that terrible brown water on Mr. Donovan’s desk. He was poisoned, wasn’t he?”

  “It appears so, Miss Appleby. The laboratory test on that brown water showed the presence of poison.”

  “He was such a good man, Mr. Frost. Who would have done such a horrible thing?” she asked, her voice distorted with seemingly genuine grief. If she was dissembling, she had Frost fooled.

  “That’s what we have to find out, Miss Appleby,” Frost said. “I’m at a total loss myself to know who might have done it.”

  “How can I help, Mr. Frost? What can I do?” she asked.

  “Well, the first thing is to try and recall who saw Donovan in his office Tuesday morning—or more precisely, who went into his office that morning. You would have seen anyone who went in there, I assume?”

  “In general, yes. I’m not there all the time of course. One steps away to use the copier or to go to the ladies’ room, things like that. But when Mr. Donovan is there—was there—I was usually sitting outside to answer his call.”

  “Do you remember who came in Tuesday morning?” Frost pressed.

  “I’m trying to think. It was not a very busy morning, as I remember. Mr. Merritt came in to see him for quite a long time, I’m pretty sure of that. And Mr. Griffith, I remember him coming in too.”

  “Do you know what they talked about?” Frost asked.

  “No. He had the door shut,” she answered.

  “Are you sure they were the only two? How about anyone from outside?”

  “No, I don’t think so on Tuesday morning. Mr. Draper had been in on Monday, I remember, but I don’t think Mr. Donovan had any visitors from outside the office on Tuesday. But I can check my records.”

  “Records?” Frost said, puzzled as to what she meant.

  “Yes. To help Mr. Donovan write up drafts of his time charges every morning for the day before, I kept a list of the people he saw and of his telephone calls. He never saw the list I started for Tuesday, of course, but I think it is probably still in the papers on my desk.”

  “Could you check, please?” Frost asked. Appleby got up and went out, returning in moments with her typed notes for Tuesday.

  “I was right, Mr. Frost. The only two people I have down for Tuesday morning are Mr. Merritt and Mr. Griffith. And there are only two telephone calls.”

  “To whom?”

  “Mr. Draper.”

  “And?”

  “Mrs. Singer,” Appleby answered after a slight hesitation.

  “Did you place all of Donovan’s calls?”

  “Yes. He was quite helpless about remembering numbers.”

  “Well, I don’t know whether what you’ve told me is helpful or not. But do you have any ideas, Miss Appleby? Any suspicion, any notion of who the killer might be?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Frost. No notions at all,” she answered.

  “Well, if you get any, let me know, will you please?”

  “Of course, Mr. Frost. We must find the killer. We absolutely must,” she said.

  “Thank you, Grace, I appreciate your help,” Frost said as he rose, terminating the visit.

  After she left, Frost was about to take a drink of water from the carafe beside his desk when he thought better of it. Instead he walked to the drinking fountain down the hall. As he came back, he thought about the information he had learned. Only Merritt and Griffith had apparently had access to the fatal carafe. And, of course, Grace Appleby.

  Shortly after lunch Bannard called Frost to report that the Police Department had not been heard from.

  “Let me call Bautista and I’ll get back to you,” Frost told Bannard. Frost was anxious to forestall another confrontation between Bannard and the officer, since he personally did not see how the investigation would be advanced by the grilling of the office staff, which Bannard was still determined was the way to proceed.

  Frost called Bautista’s direct number and was relieved when the detective answered.

  “Mr. Bautista, this is Reuben Frost.”

  “Yes, sir. How are you doing today?”

  “Fine, thank you. I’m calling, needless to say, about the Donovan case. You remember my colleague George Bannard?”

  “Yes, of course I do,” Bautista replied.

  “Well, he still seems determined to have you fellows come in here and question everyone about the murder.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think it would be a mistake; I’ve been making a little progress along the lines we discussed yesterday. I can’t say I’ve had any great insight into the matter or scored any big breakthrough, but I think we’re moving in the right direction. Is there a chance we could talk today? I’d like to tell you what’s been going on.”

  “Sure thing. Should I come down there?”

  “No, that would be a mistake. Bannard might demand that you start questioning the staff immediately. How about the Gotham Club? I often stop there for a drink on the way home. Would that be convenient?”

  “Whatever you say. Where is it?”

  “Fifth Avenue and Fifty-sixth Street. One West Fifty-sixth.”

  “What time?”

  “Five?”

  “Done. And as for your Mr. Bannard, it’s now mid-afternoon on Friday, so the chances of setting up interrogations with peop
le for today are practically gone. And I don’t see that we gain anything by running around to people’s homes over the weekend. So tell your Mr. Bannard that I’ve checked out the laboratory report and I’m satisfied a homicide has taken place. Tell him further that we’ve got some leads we’re checking out—I assume that statement will be more true after we talk this afternoon—and I’ll report back on Monday.”

  “Fine.”

  “Oh, and one more thing. Give Mr. Bannard my regards.”

  “See you at five o’clock.”

  Bautista and Frost met as they approached the Gotham Club front door promptly at five.

  “Come this way,” Frost said. “I expect the bar will be deserted on a nice September Friday afternoon like this.” He was right. Except for a pair of members who looked comfortably like fixtures, the bar was deserted. Frost led the way to a corner table, out of earshot of the bartender and the members.

  “You know, it’s a rule of this place that one can’t discuss business here. But I’m sure the house committee would make an exception for an ongoing murder investigation,” Frost said.

  Bautista laughed easily as he pulled his notebook from his pocket.

  “Oh God, I forgot that you will probably want to take notes. Papers and notebooks are out-of-bounds here too.”

  Bautista put the notebook back in his pocket. “That’s all right,” he said. “My mother always told me I had a good memory. It’s good to exercise it once in a while.”

  “I’m sorry, I never thought of your notebook.”

  “No problem.”

  “Let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.”

  Frost ordered a vermouth and soda. Bautista, apologizing, said that he was still on duty and asked for a Coca-Cola.

  “How inconsiderate of me to bring you to a bar. Of course you can’t drink on duty,” Frost said.