The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  “That’s great, Smith, gee, that’s great,” Harold said, his chest expanding, all puffed up because Smith had given him the authority to do an interview.

  “Just excuse yourself about having to answer the telephone, and keep screening those calls. Wetzon, that is what you want for now?”

  Wetzon nodded.

  Smith gave Harold a piercing look. “And tuck your shirt in, if you please.”

  He started to leave, obediently stuffing in his shirt. “And don’t forget your jacket.” His jacket hung sloppily half off his shoulders. He straightened his jacket, shamefaced, and tugged at his sleeves. Smith and Wetzon looked him over critically. It really didn’t help. He was an untidy mess.

  “Oh, here, I forgot.” Harold thrust a mass of pink message slips at Smith and Wetzon and closed the door behind him.

  Smith sighed. “I don’t know why we bother. He’s like another son.”

  “Except that Mark is more mature,” Wetzon said.

  “One of us is going to have to tell him to shave off his mustache and beard. With that nose and those glasses he looks as if he’s wearing a disguise.”

  “Well, it ain’t gonna be me.” Wetzon laughed and flipped through her messages, separating the business calls from the personal ones. She knew that Smith was angling for her to do the dirty work.

  “Damnation,” Smith said, “that rotten Jeff Monahan didn’t show up for his appointment in New Haven with Shearson Lehman. These brokers are all alike. You can never depend on them.”

  “Too bad. That ends him as a viable candidate, I suppose.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have Harold call him and see what his excuse is this time. This is the second meeting the sleaze hasn’t shown for. The last time, his car broke down, but he never even called to say he couldn’t come.”

  “Well, we won’t be able to show him to Shearson again, that’s for sure.”

  “Wetzon, goddammit, look at this!” Smith waved a message in Wetzon’s face. “Elliot Dunham, the branch office manager for Shearson in New Haven, left me a message saying just that, very succinctly. Harold should have told me about it when I walked in this morning, but he’s distracted by this damn murder you’ve gotten involved in.”

  That’s right, Smith, keep dumping on me, Wetzon thought, but she said, “Do you think we can show Monahan to another firm?”

  “I don’t know if it’s worth the bother.”

  “He’s a good producer.”

  “We’ll see,” Smith said. “Let’s talk about it after Harold calls him and gets the latest excuse. More important, how are you? That’s an ugly bruise on your forehead.”

  So you finally deigned to notice. “It looks worse than it feels,” Wetzon evaded. “I’ll be a lot better tomorrow.” Her head throbbed and she had a burning sensation behind her eyeballs.

  “That sleazebag Georgie Travers tried to muscle his way in here this morning,” Smith said.

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I just met him outside.”

  “The nerve,” Smith said angrily. “I told him you weren’t coming in today. I can’t believe he’s been hanging around out there all this time.”

  “What do you mean, all this time? I thought he just got here.”

  “Did he tell you that?” Smith demanded, hands on hips. Wetzon nodded. “What a creep. He was here over an hour ago. Ask Harold.” She laughed. “Harold thought he was applying for the cold caller job.”

  “I don’t understand.” Wetzon shook her head, momentarily forgetting her wound. The unwary action brought on another spasm of pain, this time accompanied by nausea.

  “You look terrible, sweetie,” Smith said. “You should have stayed home today. I could have handled everything.”

  “But Silvestri—”

  “Him, too.” Smith patted herself on the shoulder.

  I’ll bet, Wetzon thought, feeling sorry for herself.

  “Do you have the key?” Smith demanded. When Wetzon nodded, she said eagerly, “Let’s see.”

  Wetzon reached into her pocket for the key, her heart fluttering for one moment when she felt for it and didn’t find it, until her fingers located it in the corner of the pocket. She held it up in the sunlight that poured through their garden windows. The light made an enlarged reflection of hand and key in Smith’s eyes. “Herewith, the McGuffin,” Wetzon said dramatically, dropping the stubby key into Smith’s outstretched hand.

  “The what?” Smith mumbled, studying the key, not really listening.

  “The McGuffin. What Hitchcock said was the object of the mystery—that which everyone is searching for, or something like that. You know, like The Maltese Falcon.”

  “Hitchcock? Are we working with a Hitchcock?” Smith looked up from the key and stared at Wetzon.

  “No, no, I’m sorry, just a joke. I meant Alfred Hitchcock. Forget it.”

  “Mmmm,” Smith said, “there are some numbers on this key. Scratched in.”

  Wetzon put her personal messages under the heavy marble peach paperweight that had been a thank-you gift from Laura Lee Day, a stockbroker she’d placed at Oppenheimer, and went through her business calls again, shuffling the important ones to the top. “Uh-oh, Rudy Reilly. They’re zeroing in on me. Help.” She slumped in her chair, suddenly tired and depressed. “It’s too much ... it’s all too much.” She groped for a Kleenex from the box in the desk drawer. Her head hurt, her back and shoulders ached. And she had ruined her favorite suit. “I’ve ruined my gray suit,” she said tearfully.

  “It’s okay, honey, it’s really okay.” Smith got up from her chair, the key put aside for the moment, gathered Wetzon up, and patted her head. “You’ve been through a lot, and you haven’t had much sleep. We’ll go and have a nice lunch at Cafe 58, and then we’ll let Silvestri handle everything. Okay?”

  Wetzon smiled. Smith wasn’t much of an intellect, and she could be selfish sometimes, but basically she was a decent, caring person. “I’d like that,” she said, gratefully letting Smith take charge. She felt very shaky and vulnerable.

  “I’ll hold on to the key,” Smith said, putting it into her pocket and patting it. “I think we ought to call Leon and try to get him to meet us for lunch so we can get a clear legal opinion on how to approach this.”

  Wetzon nodded. Smith was right. Smith was always right where business was concerned. She seemed to be so levelheaded, especially in times of crisis.

  “I’ll get him on the phone. You wash your face and fix your makeup.”

  Smith was humming when she dialed Leon Ostrow’s office. Wetzon could see she felt much better now that she was taking charge. She was not at all good at being swept along in someone else’s life.

  “Oh, my God, I almost forgot,” Wetzon whispered. “Take a look at this.” She put the Journal article about Kaplan, Moran on top of Smith’s desk. “This is what Barry started to tell me about, only he was talking, I think, about Jake Donahue’s.”

  Smith stared at her, then glanced absently at the paper. She put her finger to her lips. “Oh, yes, is Leon there, sugar?” she said sweetly into the phone. “Yes, Xenia Smith. Well, hi there, you old sweet thing. How’re you doing? I know.” She became cool and professional. “Everybody recognized her. No, she’s okay. No, I hadn’t noticed your call, sweetie, we’ve had so many calls this morning. Listen, Leon, dear, we were wondering if you’d be able to join us for lunch. We have a four-ish appointment with the detective who’s working on the case. How’s one o’clock? Cafe 58. See you ... What?” She looked startled. She stared at Wetzon. “You do? How interesting. We can talk about it when we see you, sweetie pie.” She hung up.

  “What did Leon say just now?” Wetzon asked.

  “Wait a minute.” Smith buzzed Harold.

  “Yes, Smith.” He sounded harassed.

  “Reservation for three at one o’clock at Cafe 58.”

  “Ohhh, you’re not going to leave me all alone here to handle the calls? What if the phones get tied
up and I lose some calls?” He was whining again.

  “You do the best you can. You’ve handled things alone before. This is no different. Don’t be such a baby,” she said icily.

  “Right, Smith, I’m sorry. Gee, I didn’t mean it. You know that. Smith, I liked Bailey Balaban.”

  “Who is Bailey Balaban?”

  “The candidate for cold caller for us. You know, the one I interviewed. He just left.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk about it tomorrow and arrange for him to come back and meet us next week.” She looked at Wetzon. Wetzon nodded. “Do we have anyone with appointments to be confirmed today?”

  “Yes. George Mallow with Alex Brown, after the close, at four-thirty.”

  “Well, you do it. And call Monahan and find out what the hell made him miss the second appointment. But take care of the reservation first.”

  “Okay.”

  Smith hung up the intercom. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with him.”

  “He’s feeling left out.” Wetzon was standing with her back to Smith, looking at their pretty, sunny garden with the white cast iron chairs. It seemed such a long time ago—and it was only yesterday—that the garden furniture was delivered.

  “Who cares how he feels,” Smith said. “It’s his job to adjust to us.”

  “What did Leon say that was so interesting?” Wetzon turned back to look at Smith.

  “Oh, nothing much,” Smith said casually. There was a long pause. After Wetzon had turned back to the garden, Smith added, “Just that he represents Jake Donahue.”

  18

  They were only nine blocks from Cafe 58, a small French restaurant just off Second Avenue, so they walked up Second Avenue. It was a glorious spring day.

  They often ate at Cafe 58 because the food was good, the service even better. There was something rather homey about it—its attempt at East Side chic, thwarted by the inapt red-and-black houndstooth upholstery on the banquettes and chairs, probably left over from a previous incarnation at the same address.

  They were greeted effusively when they arrived, Smith leading the way. The sharp contrast from the bright sunlight of the street to the muted lighting within made Wetzon dizzy, and she rested her hand on the warm, smooth wood of the bar to steady herself.

  “Good afternoon, mesdames.” The maître d’ bowed. “Table for three today ... how is that in the corner?” He knew that was where they preferred to sit, so it was like playing a charade, but they always went along with it.

  “Perfection, as always,” Smith said.

  He led them to their table. “I would like a Lillet,” Smith announced, after she was settled.

  “And you, madam?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  “Oh, really, Wetzon,” Smith said, “don’t you think you should have a light drink to help you relax?”

  “No, I don’t want to relax that much. I’d rather have the caffeine until we get Silvestri over with,” Wetzon said testily. She hated it when Smith tried to take over her life, too, but she was usually less vulnerable and thus able to sidestep before Smith started on her.

  Smith, who had been watching her closely, patted her on the arm. “Whatever you want, sugar.”

  “What did you see in the cards today?” Wetzon asked as their drinks were set in front of them.

  “I didn’t spend as much time with them as I would have liked,” Smith replied evasively, not meeting her eyes.

  “Now, come on, Smith, tell me.”

  “A strong, dark man has entered my life.” Smith smiled.

  “Silvestri, I guess,” Wetzon said. “The cards are right again. And what else? What about me?”

  Smith was busy studying the menu.

  “Smith, you know that menu by heart, and you always have the cold poached salmon, so tell me. What did they say about me?”

  “Danger for you, I’m afraid, my sweet.” Smith seemed reluctant to elaborate. “Oh, good, there’s Leon.”

  “Well, girls.” Leon folded his lanky body in his standard baggy suit into a chair and peered at them through thick hornrimmed glasses. As usual, his glasses caught the wisps of hair around his ears and threw them every which way.

  “Ladies,” Smith and Wetzon corrected in unison. Leon shook his head solemnly. It was their long-standing joke that Leon could never get used to the difference between girls and women and ladies, what he called “the language of lib.”

  The maître d’ brought Leon scotch on the rocks so quickly that he must have asked for it when he walked in the door. They watched him do his scotch ritual. He took a small swallow of the drink and held it in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. “Aaaaah,” he said, not disappointing them. “Wetzon, what’s a nice girl like you doing involved in a murder?”

  “Leon, it was about an hour after we—”

  Leon put up his hand. “Just tell me what actually happened,” he said sharply. “The rest will keep.”

  Smith’s eyes widened and she frowned at him. He shifted awkwardly in his seat as he caught Smith’s reproof.

  “Forgive me, Wetzon, business pressures.... Please continue.” He moved his hand toward her, palm up, motioning her to begin. And he listened. Leon was the best listener. He scratched his head vigorously. Wetzon spoke; Smith interrupted a few times. Leon rubbed his forehead, scratched his nose. When Wetzon finished, he was silent for a few moments. He took off his glasses, cleaned them with his napkin, and put them on again. “Where is the key?” he asked.

  “Here.” Smith produced it.

  “Looks like a safe deposit key. Except they’re usually heavier than this.” He handed the key back to Smith. “Of course ... you have to give it to the police. What time is your appointment?”

  “Around four,” Smith answered.

  The waiter was hovering. A busboy using tongs placed a fresh, crisp baguette on each bread plate.

  “I’ll have the poached salmon,” Smith said, “and a salad with vinaigrette dressing.”

  “Same for me,” Wetzon said.

  “The liver,” Leon said. “And the salad.”

  Wetzon broke her baguette into pieces, buttering each. She was starving. She realized she’d had almost nothing to eat in the last twenty-four hours, just the chocolate croissant that Carlos had brought her. And she could hardly remember eating it.

  “I’d like to go with you, but I think you can handle it yourselves,” Leon said, looking at Smith. “Unless, Wetzon, there’s something you haven’t told us ...”

  Wetzon shook her head.

  “Just tell them what you know. They don’t have reason to suspect you, do they, Wetzon?” His eyes, behind the thick glasses, were solemn.

  “Leon, for godsakes,” Smith said.

  “That’s all right, Smith,” Wetzon cut in. “It bears asking, I think. No, Leon, I don’t believe so.”

  “You’ll do fine. I have a rather important meeting this afternoon, otherwise I would go with you.”

  “Jake Donahue?” Smith’s voice was coy.

  Leon poked at the slivers of ice in his glass with his index finger. “There’s no harm in telling you now, because it went out over the wire about an hour ago. Donahue had a relationship with Kaplan, Moran ... you know about that firm?”

  “Yes,” Wetzon said, eyes wide, her mind working.

  “Kaplan, Moran?” Smith repeated, trying to place it.

  “Yes, the Atlanta bond house that went belly up because of repos. They were closed down yesterday,” Wetzon explained.

  “There’s an investigation going on now. The SEC is involved.” Leon’s tone was noncommittal, but his face was grim.

  “How serious?” Wetzon asked.

  “Serious.”

  “You know, don’t you, that Barry Stark worked for Jake Donahue?” she said.

  The luncheon plates were put in front of them.

  “Another Lillet, please,” Smith said.

  No one picked up a fork or even looked at his plate.

  “I know,” Leon said. “Spea
king for my client, Mr. Jacob Donahue, we would be very interested in what that little key unlocks.” He looked from Smith to Wetzon, cutting a slice of liver and placing it in his mouth. He chewed very slowly and swallowed, enjoying the rapt attention of both women. “Because, my dears, and this is for your ears only, there is suddenly a great deal of money unaccounted for at my client’s firm.”

  19

  They sat at the table dawdling over coffee after Leon left. Wetzon felt the caffeine begin to revive her. Sometimes one needed a little artificial lift, she rationalized to herself, because she tried to stay away from most chemicals. This thought reminded her of the pills the doctor had given her. What had she done with them?

  “Interesting,” she said, wiping crumbs around distractedly. The little bits of bread bounced about on the white linen tablecloth as she moved her coffee spoon back and forth. “Smith—”

  “Wetzon—”

  They laughed.

  “Leon seems upset,” Wetzon said.

  “Yes.” Smith was thoughtful. “I suppose it’s about Jake Donahue, but he really shouldn’t have taken that tone with you.”

  “It’s funny about his being there,” Wetzon mused. “I wonder if he was there when it happened.”

  “Where? What are you talking about, Wetzon?”

  “Leon. He was there. He was at the Four Seasons last night. I ran into him before I met Barry.”

  “Leon? He was there? I can’t believe it.” Smith was indignant. “Why didn’t he tell me? Who was he with?”

  “I don’t know. It was crowded and I couldn’t see—and now that I think of it, he wasn’t anxious for me to see, either—” She remembered the way he’d stood, deliberately blocking her view of the bar area, how he had walked her to the chairs.

  Smith patted Wetzon’s hand. “Leave it to me, sweetie. I’ll find out. Don’t say anything to anybody about Leon being there ... not even to Silvestri....” She took the key out of her pocket. “Right now, we have more important things to think about.”

  They both stared at the key.

  “What do you think it was—” Wetzon started.