Frost glanced at it quickly; it seemed to be the same as the document Holt had sent to him years earlier. The estate was left entirely to Teresa Holt, except for $5 million to Jack Navikoff and the royalties from several ballets to named individuals at NatBallet. Reuben was appointed the executor, and also the literary executor for granting rights to the ballets Holt had choreographed.
“Yes. This is the same one Clifton sent me long ago,” Frost said, after reading it more carefully. “Nothing very unusual about it, except the bequest to Navikoff.”
“And except that Clifton had barely spoken to Teresa in recent years.”
“True. And how do you account for the Navikoff bequest?”
“There are two possible explanations, I guess. Neither one mutually exclusive,” Lincoln said. “Clifton always felt that Jack Navikoff was responsible for his success in Hollywood. He often said that without Jack looking after his business interests his movies would have been failures. But they weren’t, as you know. The reality is, Reuben, that Clifton left an estate that is probably worth fifteen million all told—not counting future royalties on his ballets.”
“I had no idea it was anything like that. We all knew he was rich, but I at least didn’t think he was that rich.”
“Very few people did; certainly you couldn’t tell it from the way he lived. Anyway, I think the bequest to Navikoff was to recognize his help.”
“You said there were two reasons.”
“Oh, Reuben, you know the other as well as I. Navikoff and Holt were lovers. Clifton never said as much, but they were just too close, too inseparable, not to have been. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess I do.”
“Now, having examined that will—the signed will—take a look at this,” Lincoln said, reaching back into the file. He pulled out another document and handed it to Frost. It was in form a will, but it had not been signed or witnessed. Frost read it carefully and with increasing incredulity. In this version, Holt’s entire estate was left to the Clifton Holt Foundation, a charitable foundation with clearly spelled-out purposes: scholarships for young dance students, an emergency revolving loan fund for dancers affiliated with the major companies and an endowment to encourage new choreography. There was no bequest to Navikoff—beyond the forgiveness of an unspecified amount of outstanding debt—and not a penny for the dead man’s widow.
“When did you prepare this, Melvin?”
“Last week. I got a note from Clifton about two weeks ago setting forth the new terms he wanted. Then the middle of last week he came in to talk about it some more, and when I found out he was adamant, I went ahead and prepared this. He was supposed to come in tomorrow to sign it.”
“But it’s crazy, Melvin. He and Teresa were still married, weren’t they?”
“As far as I know. In fact, Clifton even said so.”
“So she could elect against the will and take half the estate?”
“Correct. And I told Clifton that. But if she did elect, look what she would have to do.”
“You mean take away funds from the young and the needy?”
“Exactly. Holt wanted to make her look greedy and selfish.”
“Shameful. She really wouldn’t have had a choice, would she? At least, I assume she has no money of her own?”
“That’s what I’ve always understood. I don’t think she has anything other than the apartment where she lives now—Clifton bought that for her three or four years ago—and a monthly allowance of five thousand dollars.”
“And what about Navikoff?”
“According to Holt, Navikoff owed him about a hundred thousand. That was to be forgiven. But the five-million bequest disappeared.”
“Was any reason given for that change?” Frost asked.
“None. When I asked him specifically, he wouldn’t answer; just ignored my question,” Lincoln said. “But you’ve got to understand that Clifton was threatening to change his will all the time, even though he never did anything about it. He started doing it as soon as he made his first real money. It was all ridiculous—a young, healthy man talking about his will—but he seemed to get some weird satisfaction out of his dramatic threats.”
“It is pretty strange, though I suppose it was still another way of torturing Teresa—and Jack,” Frost said. “And we were supposed to run this damn foundation?” Frost went on, pointing to the operative clause in the draft.
“Yes,” Lincoln replied. “Might have been kind of fun. We could have been the new Shuberts.”
“Well, there’s no chance of that, right? I mean, the old will still governs,” Frost said.
“Absolutely. Thank God, for Teresa’s sake. She’s been through enough humiliations without the final one Holt was planning.”
“Well, Melvin, I think I’d probably better go over to Holt’s apartment and have a look around. What do you think?”
“I agree.”
“But how can I get in, do you know?”
“I think Clifton’s maid is there every day. A Miss Fleiss, I believe.”
“Do you mind if I call and see?”
“Not at all. My secretary has the number, I’m sure.” Lincoln got the number for Frost, who placed a call.
“Miss Fleiss is expecting me,” Frost said, as he put down the telephone. “So I’ll be on my way.”
“One thing, Reuben, before you go,” Lincoln said. “I assume your firm will want to take over representation of the estate, with you as executor and all.…”
“No, no, Melvin,” Frost said. “Were I still active in the firm, I might have felt I had to say yes. But I’m not, and besides, you’ve always represented Holt’s activities and I want you to continue. You know all about Clifton’s affairs and are much more experienced than anyone at my firm in copyright and artistic-property matters. I’m going to need your help to straighten things out.”
“That’s very generous of you, Reuben. But I assure you I’ll abide by your wishes either way,” Lincoln said.
“My wishes are that you stay on,” Frost replied. He genuinely did want Lincoln to continue representing the estate, though there was no way he could transfer to Lincoln & Gold the fee he would earn as executor (which he had already decided he would donate to NatBallet).
“Fine. Just let me know what I can do to help,” Melvin Lincoln said as they parted.
Frost walked from West Fifty-seventh Street to Holt’s apartment house on East Sixty-sixth Street, off Madison Avenue. Before leaving home, he had talked briefly to a young trust-and-estates partner at Chase & Ward about what he should be doing at Holt’s residence. Frost had been advised to look things over in general and to make sure that there were no obvious valuables left around that might be stolen. A formal inventory of the property could follow in due course.
After being announced by the doorman, Frost was admitted to Holt’s apartment by Miss Fleiss, a retainer of uncertain age, but certainly not young. Frost introduced himself, explained his role, and said that he wanted to inspect the apartment.
“Very good, Mr. Frost,” the woman said. “You’ll find everything the way Mr. Holt left it yesterday. Except for a little tidying up I did.”
Frost had visited the apartment often—Holt, despite his stinginess, did entertain, if not particularly lavishly—and he now went directly into the living room. The room was large, but decorated in a most conventional fashion. The miscellaneous pieces of furniture neither matched nor complemented each other, and there was too much chintz in the curtains and the slip coverings of the larger pieces. Holt had never hired a decorator to do the room; or if he had, he had been badly taken.
A grand piano in the corner and tables about the room were covered with photographs, all in silver frames, showing the apartment’s owner posing at various times at various places with various friends. Frost thought that a skillful editor could take all the pictures from the room and with very little effort construct a pictorial biography of Holt; the only periods that seemed to be missing were childhood and early a
dolescence.
Nothing seemed amiss; nor were there objects crying out to be stored away for safekeeping. So Frost continued on into Holt’s study. Here there were more photographs, this time autographed pictures of virtually every important figure in the dance world for the past generation. These were hung haphazardly on the walls, amid framed posters for Holt’s movies.
A large antique desk was covered with stacks of papers. Frost began to examine them. There was little of interest—bills, a letter to Bloomingdale’s about an undelivered chair, a sheaf of invitations (with a notation of acceptance or regret on each in Holt’s meticulous handwriting), a letter from a doctoral candidate at a Midwestern university asking a series of questions about Holt’s choreography.
But there was a copy of Holt’s note to Melvin Lincoln outlining the shocking proposed changes in his will. And there was one other surprise, a major one: a manila folder labeled “MATTISON.” Inside was a copy of a letter to the critic Arthur Mattison, written in early March. It read:
Dear Arthur:
This is a very painful letter for me to write, but I feel it is important that I do so. Before I go further, rest assured that I have not discussed this letter with anyone, nor shown it to anyone. Nor will I do so, so long as you cease at once the practices I am about to describe.
I am afraid that the conclusion is inescapable that much of your recent dance criticism in the Press has been plagiarized from Edwin Denby’s early writings. Three examples are enclosed, showing quotations from recent columns of yours in the Press and the related excerpts from the old Denby reviews in the Herald-Tribune. (Several years ago, an admirer gave me a scrapbook of Denby’s pieces from the Tribune; hence my familiarity with even the most obscure of his writings.)
This is disgraceful conduct. It dishonors one of our greatest dance critics. And it insults the artists of today whom you purport to be evaluating, while in reality recycling old criticism irrelevant to these artists and their work.
As I say, if your conduct ceases, neither you nor anyone else will hear from me again on this subject. But if you are caught once more, I shall expose your plagiarism to the world.
Frost could scarcely believe what he read. New York’s most influential cultural arbiter a plagiarist? So it appeared, if Holt’s letter was to be believed—and the photocopies attached left little doubt.
The first was an excerpt from a Denby review in the September 17, 1945, Herald-Tribune:
And Franklin’s personal achievement this season as a classic dancer is striking, too. His line is large and open, his deportment is convincing, his execution is clean, his support is sure and easy. He has variety of attack and he ends with assurance. Though he has no startling brilliance or Slavic subtlety, he dances with a continuity of rhythm and a clarity of phrasing that are rare indeed. Franklin’s dancing always makes perfect sense; like a true artist, he is completely at the service of the role he takes, and his straight delight in dancing, his forthright presence and openhearted nature give his version of the great classic roles a lyric grace that is fresh and sweet.
Excellent he was as Danilova’s partner in two traditional classic ballets, in Coppelia yesterday afternoon and in last Wednesday’s Nutcracker. Danilova, who is again magnificent this fall, was particularly so in both of these pieces.
On the same page, facing the Herald-Tribune piece, was an excerpt from a recent Mattison column in the Press:
Gerald Hazard’s personal achievement this season as a classic dancer is striking. His line is large and open, his deportment is convincing, his execution is clean, his support is sure and easy. He has variety of attack and he ends with assurance. Though he has no startling brilliance or Slavic subtlety, and is not yet a principal in the Company, he dances with a continuity of rhythm and a clarity of phrasing that are rare indeed. Hazard’s dancing always makes perfect sense; like a true artist, he is completely at the service of the role he takes, and his straight delight in dancing, his forthright presence and openhearted nature give his version of the great classic roles a lyric grace that is fresh and sweet.
Excellent he was as Veronica Maywood’s partner in Paganini Variations on Tuesday. Maywood, who is again magnificent this winter, was particularly so in this piece.
Good for Holt! Frost thought. Sometimes being a bastard paid off. Many, with their professional reputations at stake, would have been afraid to challenge Arthur Mattison, the Press’s heavy-hitting columnist. But Holt had not been so afraid (assuming, as there was no reason not to, that the original of the letter had been sent).
With some amusement Frost thought of what Cynthia’s reaction would be. Nothing short of jubilation, he believed, in light of Mattison’s recent attacks on the Brigham Foundation. Frost decided to take the folder with him.
Nothing else on or in Holt’s desk came near to the interest of the Mattison file. While he was rummaging through the desk, he heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to face Jack Navikoff.
“Oh, hello, Jack,” Frost said, trying to conceal his lack of enthusiasm for the producer.
“Hello, Reuben. What you doing?”
“Just seeing what’s here. I’m Clifton’s executor, you know.”
“Yes, he told me that once.”
“You are, by the way, a major beneficiary of his will.”
“Really?” Navikoff said, dubiously.
“Yes. He left you five million dollars.”
“You have checked this out?”
“Yes. I talked to Melvin Lincoln less than an hour ago.”
“Well, I guess I should be grateful. I am grateful,” Navikoff said, no longer doubting and scarcely able to conceal what seemed to be his relief.
“You’re very lucky. I may as well tell you. Clifton had ordered a new will drawn up—in which he cut you out except for forgiveness of some outstanding debt.”
“He did that?” Navikoff said, at least feigning incredulity.
“Yes. He was going to sign the new version tomorrow.”
“My God—you mean if Clifton had died two days from now …” Navikoff’s voice dropped and he did not finish the sentence.
“That’s right. Assuming he signed the new will, you would have been out almost the full five million.”
“Jesus Christ,” Navikoff said. He was obviously stunned, and there was a pause before he spoke further. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he finally asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m just taking a look around,” Frost said. Then, after another pause, he asked Navikoff directly if he lived there.
“Off and on. I’ve got my own place over on Central Park West. And another place in Beverly Hills. But yes, since you ask, I did live here. Whenever Clifton and I were getting along.”
“Which was most of the time?”
“Used to be, but not lately. We didn’t see that much of each other in recent months.”
“But you obviously have the run of the place.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Navikoff said, after a noticeable pause.
“I want to take a look upstairs,” Frost said.
“There’s nothing up there,” Navikoff said quickly. “Just Clifton’s bedroom and the guest bedroom.”
“That’s all right. I won’t be long.”
Frost thought for a moment that Navikoff was going to block the way. But he moved aside and allowed the older man to pass up the stairs. Frost went first into the smaller bedroom, which had an adjoining bath. There were clothes in the closet and a bathrobe and shaving gear in the bathroom.
“These yours?” Frost asked.
“Yes.”
Frost then went into the master bedroom, its king-size bed made up with black sheets. Opposite the bed were a television set and a videocassette recorder. And next to it a bookcase of cassettes. Frost went to the dresser in the room, examined the top, and pulled open the upper drawers, looking for jewelry or other valuables. He found only several pairs of gold cuff links, which he put back where he found them.
Navikoff
watched Frost as he moved about the room, now focusing on the bookcase of tapes. Frost examined the titles for a moment, then removed one of them from the shelf. He looked the cover over and quickly put it back. Then he repeated the procedure with a second, after which he turned away in disgust. The two tapes he had picked out were homosexual pornography, as he suspected the whole collection was. He did not speak to Navikoff as he went down the stairs. In the study he retrieved the Mattison file and then sought out Miss Fleiss.
Frost instructed the maid to continue coming to the Holt residence on a daily basis, assuring her that she would be paid. He gave her his telephone number and went out, leaving an embarrassed Jack Navikoff behind.
Why was Navikoff so patently untruthful? Frost wondered to himself as he went down in the elevator. There was every indication he lived there on a full-time basis; yet he denied it. And had he not known about the change Holt proposed in his will? Melvin Lincoln had said Holt was always threatening those around him about his estate; and the copy of the letter outlining the changes was readily available to anyone who was the least bit nosy—as he would be willing to bet Navikoff was.
Oh, well, what does it matter? Frost thought as he went out into the street. Petty and irrelevant details best forgotten.
7
“GRIEF”
It was one o’clock when Frost left the Holt apartment. Normally he would have gone to the Gotham Club for lunch. But he had been unable to find an envelope at Holt’s big enough to hold the damning Mattison file, so he was carrying it loose. Given its explosive contents, he felt it would be imprudent to take it to the Gotham, so he decided to take the file home.
Once there, he fixed his own lunch—a clumsily made tunafish sandwich and a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup. As was his custom, he left his dirty dishes on the kitchen table—after all, wasn’t the maid meant to pick them up and wash them? He then retired to the master bedroom, where he began reading the copy of the afternoon Press he had bought at the corner newsstand.
The Press’s coverage of Holt’s murder was extensive, including an extraordinarily effusive piece on his career by Arthur Mattison. He found the article very odd in light of Holt’s devastating letter to Mattison. Was Mattison perhaps so glad to have his accuser dead that he wrote about him with delirious relief?
Murder Takes a Partner Page 7