by Lee Harris
As I looked at the list Dr. Horowitz had given me, I realized there was an address, but no phone number, for both of those men. I am a penny-pincher by nature, going back to the years I spent at St. Stephen’s Convent when I usually left the premises with fifty cents in my pocket and came home with change. What this heritage does to me is make me reluctant to spend money in ways I consider frivolous. I knew it would add seventy-five cents to our phone bill to call information for either number, and I thought about it for a minute before I took a deep breath and got the area code for Minneapolis and then called for the number. A minute later, I was listening to a ring at Fred Beller’s home.
The phone was answered by a youngish-sounding woman. I asked for Fred Beller.
“He’s out of town,” she said. “He and Mom went to New York.”
It occurred to me that although he might not want to attend reunions, he might feel different about a funeral. “Did he go to New York for the funeral of Arthur Wien?”
“Uh, no, not really. They flew to New York last week. They’ve been there a week already.”
A chill passed through me. “It’s really important that I talk to him. Could you tell me where I can reach him?”
“Sure. He’s at the Waldorf-Astoria. If you hold on a minute, I can get you the room number.”
I held. I had the feeling that all of a sudden I had learned something significant.
5
I sat there with the number of the Waldorf-Astoria and the room the Bellers were staying in staring me in the face. There was no question in my mind that Fred Beller had known well in advance of his trip to New York that the Morris Avenue Boys were having a reunion on Father’s Day. Just because he never showed up didn’t mean he didn’t receive an invitation. He had received one and timed his visit to coincide with the reunion. For all I knew, he might have had dinner in the same restaurant at the same time. I wondered if the detectives investigating the Wien homicide knew about this, and I thought it was very likely that they did not.
I picked up the phone again and dialed the Waldorf. The phone in the Bellers’ room rang several times and I was about to give up when a woman answered.
“I’d like to speak to Fred Beller, please.”
“Just a minute.” Off the phone she called, “Come on back, Fred. It’s for you.”
He answered a moment later.
“Mr. Beller, my name is Christine Bennett. I’m looking into the murder of your friend Arthur Wien for Dr. Morton Horowitz, and I’d like to talk to you while you’re still in New York.”
There was a moment of silence. “Mort told you I was here?”
Another bombshell. Morton Horowitz had known all the time we were talking this afternoon that Fred Beller was in town and he had never mentioned it. “He didn’t. But I’d like to talk to you.”
“My wife and I are on our way out. Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow would be fine. What time is good for you?”
“Uh, let’s see.” He covered the phone and I heard murmurings. “How’s lunchtime tomorrow? We’ll be back at the hotel around noon.”
“I’ll be there.”
He told me quickly where to find him—or where he would look for me—and we hung up. I was tempted to call Dr. Horowitz and confront him with what I had learned, but I decided I would gain nothing and I didn’t want to alienate him.
Instead, I went into the family room and sat down. I had scarcely read the paper today, and I picked it up and started turning pages while Jack kept his nose in his book.
Finally, he looked up. “For God’s sake, Chris, tell me!”
I laughed and put the paper aside. “You were eavesdropping.”
“Eavesdropping schmeavesdropping. What the hell is going on?”
“The elusive Mr. Fred Beller, who has not attended a Morris Avenue Boys reunion in lo these many years, was in New York during the reunion and still is.”
“That’s a big wow. How the hell did you find that out?”
I told him. When I was finished, I asked, “Do I call NYPD and give them this information?”
Jack looked conflicted. He always looks conflicted when I ask him questions that put the job and me on opposing sides. “Save it,” he said. “You’re seeing this guy tomorrow?”
“Lunchtime. I better call Elsie.”
“I’ll watch Eddie. It’s OK. We’ll talk about it when you come back. If you give this up to the cops now, they’ll move in and crowd you out. This is something good, Chris. I want you to run with it before they stop you.”
I was glad he’d said it. I have to admit that when I stumble on something as tantalizing as this, I hate to think that it’s my duty to tell the police and then politely back off, because it’s a personal thing for me. My ego gets involved in the cases I work on even more than it does for the detectives whose jobs are investigating whatever hits their desks. I also know that their case loads pile up while for me a case is the center of my interest. Eventually, if I was successful, everything I knew would be turned over to the proper people, but for the moment, I wanted to track down my lead as far as I was able.
When I finished with the Times, I took a few clean sheets of paper and organized what I had learned today about the men who were my best suspects. I listed them and wrote down everything I knew about each one. One of the things I now knew was that Dr. Horowitz had withheld a most important fact from me, that Fred Beller had been in New York for a week, and Dr. Horowitz had probably been in touch with him. Whatever the reason for his silence, I didn’t like it.
We were up early on Saturday as we usually were and had breakfast together. I was a little hesitant about leaving Eddie with Jack since Eddie needs constant watching, but Jack assured me he wanted to spend time with his son on weekends, even though there was a lot of studying to do. And there was a long nap in Eddie’s afternoon that would give Jack time to hit the books.
I left in plenty of time to get to David Koch’s apartment by ten. I arrived a little early, but after leaving my car in the underground garage in the building, I decided to go up right away without wasting any of my precious time. I had to be at the Waldorf by noon, and I had already decided to walk or take a taxi from here to there rather than incur two parking fees, although Janet Stern had promised to pay all my expenses. I’m even a penny-pincher where other people’s money is concerned.
The doorman called upstairs and I was directed to an elevator. This was a very luxurious building, fairly new and built like a tower. I was glad I was going to a high floor. I knew the view would be spectacular and I wasn’t disappointed.
I stepped out of the elevator into a small hall with two doors, one of which was already ajar. In a second David Koch himself opened it all the way, smiled, and held out his hand.
A tall, powerful-looking man dressed in expensive casual clothes, he said, “Please come inside, Ms. Bennett. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I told him to call me Chris and walked into a magnificent living room with views east and south. “It’s breathtaking,” I said.
“We enjoy it. We’re city people and we enjoy looking at it. That’s the East River out there, Roosevelt Island, Queens beyond that, and down the river on the right you can see the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and then farther down the three bridges to Brooklyn.”
I knew he meant the Williamsburg, the Manhattan, and the Brooklyn Bridges. “And you see the sun come up,” I said.
“Well, maybe in the short days of winter. We don’t get up early enough to see it at this time of year.”
We sat on an arrangement of furniture conducive to conversation, and I pulled out my notebook and pen. “You know why I’m here.”
“Somewhat. I gather you know Mort Horowitz’s granddaughter.”
“She took a poetry course I taught during the spring semester. She thought I might be able to figure out who killed your friend Arthur Wien last Sunday. Her mother seems very worried that because Dr. Horowitz found the body, he’s the main suspect.”<
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“That may or may not be true. One way or another, we’re probably all suspects, and it does no good to tell the police we were all good friends and wouldn’t hurt each other for anything in the world.”
“Dr. Horowitz has given me a thumbnail sketch of each of the members of your group. I wonder if you would do the same.”
“I’ll be glad to.”
We were sitting opposite each other. From my chair, I had the better view, both east and south. On this very sunny day, it seemed postcard perfect. A Circle Line boat was making its way up the river and a private yacht was traveling in the opposite direction. It was a remarkable view.
“I suppose,” he began, “we all see ourselves in the famous picture of the little boys in the Bronx. I’m the first one in the back row and I’m standing next to Bernie Reskin. Bernie’s a fine man, a dedicated teacher, very bright, very thoughtful, would do anything for his students. He probably should have become a college professor, but the money wasn’t there for graduate school when he was ready for it, so he got a job teaching high school.”
“Do you know how he felt about Arthur Wien?”
“Bernie loves everybody in the world. We were all friends, Chris. We all liked each other. I’m better friends with Mort than with the others, but I’m there for all of them. I’m sure Bernie feels the same way.” He paused.
“Ernie Greene is a medical researcher, spends his life with microbes. There are people alive today because of him. They don’t know it but I know it. I’ve always been grateful that there are people like Ernie who give their lives to the kind of work he does. He’s the human being behind the word cure. He has a good sense of humor, no ego at all, and more energy than I’ve ever seen in one person. I don’t think the word retire is part of his vocabulary. And before you ask, he probably didn’t care for Arthur Wien that much, but so what? Not every personality gets along with every other one. Ernie isn’t into hurting people.”
I was taking down phrases as he spoke and starting to wonder if this was such a good idea. Unless I found one man who had a grudge and was willing to be honest, most of what I would hear would be paeans to their friends.
“Do you know what it was that made Dr. Greene feel that way?”
“People are different. Artie’s lifestyle didn’t appeal to Ernie. Artie was too flamboyant for a man who spends his waking hours in a laboratory and probably dreams about his research when he sleeps.”
I nodded although I felt this was all rehearsed.
“You’ve met Mort. A man couldn’t ask for a better friend. He works hard, he has a good family, he has a great sense of humor. I’ve probably laughed harder in his presence than anywhere else, but I’ve probably also spent more serious moments with him than with anyone else I know. And I wouldn’t take my body to any other doctor in the city of New York.”
I smiled.
“Bruce. You’ve probably heard about his troubles. Bruce is a good man who took the rap for someone else, I’m afraid. He doesn’t talk about it and I don’t think he ever will.”
“Did you represent him in court?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did he ask you?”
He looked at me for the first time as though I were not a recording secretary but someone who might ask an interesting question. “He called me for advice and I recommended a couple of lawyers to him. This happened many years ago and I thought he needed someone with more experience than I had. He didn’t ask me to represent him, but that’s how I felt.”
“You said he took the rap for someone.”
“I don’t know who that person was.”
“Do you think he knows?”
“I think he does.”
“But you have suspicions.”
“I do, but they’re only suspicions, and I don’t think it would be right to say anything about them.”
Something had changed in him as he spoke. He sounded less rehearsed, less as though he were delivering a practiced monologue. He was talking now, not reciting.
“Thank you for being candid. What about the first row?”
“There isn’t much to say about the first row any more, is there? Fred Beller hasn’t shown up for years, Art’s dead, George is dead. That leaves Joe Meyer. Joe is a musician, a very fine one. He’s a good man. He’s not well but he keeps up the good fight. I hope he lives forever and makes music for the rest of his life.”
“What was his relationship with Arthur Wien?”
“Probably closer than that of any of the rest of us. I believe Joe and Artie used to get together. I think Joe and Judy went out to California a few times to visit the Wiens.”
“Then they were pretty good friends.”
“I’d say so.”
“What did you think of Arthur Wien?”
He leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Even when we were in high school,” he said, adjusting himself so that he now looked at me, “you knew Artie Wien was going to make it. There was something about him, a sense of direction, of purpose. He loved to write and he was good at it. We would put on skits for one thing or another and he would write them, including the songs, and you knew he was good. I could have thrown a skit together, but it wouldn’t have had the wit; it wouldn’t have been as clever. He was a talented kid and he worked at it.”
“I gather his first book was a success.”
“It was phenomenal. Here was a young guy, not yet thirty, and he wrote a best-seller. We were all struggling in our professions, earning in a year what people now earn in a week or even a day, hoping we could pay our rent, and there was Artie Wien a great success. And he deserved it. He earned it.”
“Tell me about the old neighborhood.”
“Ah.” David Koch looked out the window. “You may think that this is a wonderful view, that this apartment is a fantastic location. I can tell you that where I lived as a boy was more beautiful to me then than this is to me now. We had a big, beautiful apartment on Morris Avenue, two bedrooms, a kitchen with a dinette where we ate all our meals, a bathroom in white tile. My brother and I shared a bedroom that was big enough for two beds, the sun came through the window in the afternoon, the kids played in the street outside. Remember the old Robert Louis Stevenson poem about going to bed by day? How you could hear people’s feet going by in the street? That’s the way it was for us, a safe, happy home. There was nothing to fear. You could walk to school. We had parks nearby. My mother shopped at the stores on 174th Street. When we wanted to go into New York, we walked down to the Grand Concourse and took the D train.” He looked at me with a little frown. “Would you like to see where we lived?”
“My husband tells me it’s not a safe place to go any more.”
“That’s an exaggeration, and anyway, I can guarantee your safety. I have a driver who can take us. We could do it tomorrow.”
“I’d love to.”
“Good. I haven’t been back for a couple of years. Do me good to see it again. Give us a chance to talk some more. I’ll show you where everyone lived.” He turned as someone came into the living room. “Ellen,” he said, standing, “this is Chris Bennett.”
Ellen Koch came in and shook hands with me. She was a strikingly beautiful woman with a head of beautiful close-cropped gray hair. She was as slim as a girl and had a wonderful smile. “I see Dave has been telling you about his boyhood.”
“It’s very interesting to me. I didn’t grow up in a city.”
“Well, he did and he can’t ever leave it.”
“Did you know Arthur Wien?” I asked.
“I only saw him at reunions. He seemed rather full of himself but he enjoyed being with the old gang. I’ve read some of his books and I enjoyed them. His wife seemed quite nice.”
“Was last Sunday the first you’d met her?”
“Let me think. No, I think she came to the last reunion. They may not have been married then. Do you remember, Dave?”
“She was there last time. She wore kind of a—”
“
Yes, that’s the one. Then I’ve met her twice.”
“Did you know his first wife?”
“Oh yes. We even ran into her at something a few months ago, some dinner we attended. A very nice woman.”
“Your husband has been candid. I’d appreciate it if you were. Who among the men in the group or their wives might have wanted Arthur Wien dead?”
She sat on a chair before answering and I glanced over at her husband to see whether his face might tell me something, but it was quite bland.
“Arthur had women,” she said. “I think he felt that it came with being the kind of success he was, a man who was interviewed on talk shows, that sort of thing. There was a rumor—”
When she stopped, I looked at her husband again but he made no move, gave no signal, to stop her.
“A rumor?” I asked.
“That he’d had an affair with the wife of one of the men in the group.”
“Do you know which woman it was supposed to be?”
“I don’t. I can tell you it wasn’t me. Can I get you some coffee?”
I looked at my watch. “No thank you. I have somewhere to go. But it looks as though I’ll be back tomorrow for a guided tour.”
“A tour through the past. It’ll be an eye-opener. When you see where people came from, you begin to understand them.”
It was an idea that appealed to me.
6
I felt that the two people I left behind had changed from the people who were there when I first entered the apartment. Ellen Koch seemed troubled and David Koch subdued. There was a lot rushing around in my head that I wished I had time to think about, but I was bordering on being late for my noon appointment with Fred Beller. I dashed over to Third Avenue and hailed a cab. When I got inside and said, “The Waldorf-Astoria,” I had the weird feeling that more than the two people I had just left had changed. Something had happened to me too.
The taxi dropped me at the Park Avenue entrance to the huge hotel. It would have been closer if he had left me at the Lexington Avenue side, but I think he hoped to pick up a fare at the front.