“Oh, my dear Mr. Frost, I shall make it possible, all right,” Turnbull said. “But I will do it where I’m appreciated. I love the ballet, and I’m very sure there are ballet companies that will appreciate me. Your New York arrogance is appalling, your notion that all good thinking about the arts must originate with people who do not provide the money. Well, you can have your purity. I will go to the New York City Ballet, or American Ballet Theatre, or one of those exciting smaller groups like Eliot Feld, and find a compatible artistic home. I’m only sorry I’ve wasted so much time and energy on your beloved Clifton Holt, and your wife, and all those other worthies at NatBallet, who now can’t be bothered with my financial support. All you Wall Street lawyers, and culture vultures like your wife, can do anything you want. But you’re not going to do it with my money.”
“Andrea, I’m genuinely sorry you feel this way,” Frost said quietly. “But in the circumstances, I think there is nothing more to be said—other than thanks for what you have done for us up until now.” He got up and headed for the door. Turnbull followed him, but did not shake hands or do more than nod by way of a goodbye.
Frost was relieved to leave the oppressive apartment and its difficult occupant. He was relieved, too, that the relationship with Mrs. Turnbull was severed. He knew that he would probably have to sit through a long series of boring lunches and dinners, proselytizing for the Company with new sources of money. But it couldn’t be worse than dealing with an irresponsible woman without a proper sense of the character and spirit of NatBallet. He was angry at her attitude, though none of what she said had surprised him. He had restrained his temper—even when the witch had called Cynthia a “culture vulture,” whatever that might be—and had even refrained from mentioning Robert Lucas and the mysterious Gaute. What purpose would it have served? he told himself. Best to be rid of the woman, her son, her money and her past once and for all. Syracuse had been right; she was a shrike, even by the tolerant standards of New York City, where relentlessly demanding cultural organizations took support from any—or almost any—source.
Frost decided to walk to his drinks appointment at the Gotham. Walking along, he noticed a telephone-company ad at a bus stop urging him to make a call—to anyone. He responded and called home, but Cynthia had not yet heard from Bautista.
The Gotham Club was deserted when he arrived; late Saturday afternoon, unlike weekdays, was not a popular drinking hour there.
He ordered a Scotch and soda and waited, sitting by himself in the most secluded part of the room. Mattison soon arrived, slightly out of breath, and sat down opposite him.
“Reuben, I’ve been dying of curiosity all day,” Mattison said. “I assume you have some wonderful scoop for me. Fernando Bujones is going to jump ship once and for all, leave ABT and join NatBallet? Or Violette Verdy is your new artistic director? What is it? I’m dying to know.”
“Have a drink, Arthur, and I’ll tell you, though it’s not at all what you might think,” Frost replied. He summoned the bartender, and Mattison ordered a gin and tonic.
“So what is it, Reuben?” Mattison persisted. “What is this late-Saturday-afternoon rendezvous about?”
“Arthur, you are not going to like what I say to you one bit. However, I deliberately asked you here because this is a civilizing spot; it is the best possible place to discuss the distasteful subject I have in mind.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Reuben,” Mattison said, his voice betraying irritation and his hand, slightly shaking as he lifted his drink, betraying nervousness as well.
“Let me come straight to the point,” Frost said. “As you may know, I am Clifton Holt’s executor. In that capacity, I became aware of the letter he wrote to you last month.”
“The bastard. He said right in it that he would not show it to anyone.”
“He didn’t. But a copy was found after he died.”
“I can explain the whole thing,” Mattison declared. “Holt was technically correct in what he said. The words he quoted were not originally mine, but Edwin Denby’s. There’s no denying that. But I absolutely stand behind the critical judgments they expressed—as applied to the performances where I used them. So no one was being hurt.
“It was silly of me to crib from Denby’s old columns,” the critic went on. “But as I say, no harm was done to anyone. And I only did it during a very short period when I was under great pressure—my column, my TV broadcasts, finishing my book. If I was going to cover the cultural front—as I try to do, and as my publisher wants me to do—I had to cut corners. And that’s what I did, in a very small and wholly insignificant way.”
“I’m not sure, Arthur, that your public—or even your publisher—would agree,” Frost replied. “For their thirty-five cents, the readers of the Press may get clumsy and stupid prose, but I do think they at least expect that it’s original.”
“You’re undoubtedly right, Reuben. And I certainly don’t plan to take such a shortcut again, if that’s what you’re demanding.”
“Arthur, I’m not demanding anything. The incident is closed as far as I’m concerned. I do not propose to tell anyone about Holt’s letter. I’m not going public with it. I give you my word on that. I want to be very clear about that.”
“I’m sure you’re a man of your word, and I appreciate it,” Mattison said quietly.
“I would, however, like to make one small suggestion to you, Arthur,” Frost said.
“What is that?”
“That when you use the word ‘elitist’ in your commentaries, as you so often do, you make sure you know what you’re talking about.”
“What in God’s name does that statement mean? What are you getting at?”
“I have in mind, my friend, those pieces you wrote on the grants program of the Brigham Foundation. I believe if you examined the Foundation more carefully, you would find that it is neither elitist nor snobbish, nor biased in favor of New York at all.”
“Ahh, now I see. That’s one of your wife’s hobbyhorses, isn’t it? So what you’re telling me is that if I lay off the Brigham Foundation, you will keep quiet about Holt’s letter.”
“You haven’t been listening, Arthur,” Frost replied. “I gave my word that I would never reveal your letter—”
“—Not even to Cynthia?”
“No, I can’t say that. But I think I can speak for her too when I say that no one else will ever hear about it. I gave you my word on that, and I’ll commit for Cynthia as well. As for the Foundation, I merely made the suggestion—the suggestion—that you look into what it does more carefully, find out how effective it is, before you dismiss it as a rich man’s plaything. Once you’ve done that, you can write anything you damn please—I’m not trying to override the First Amendment. I know your publisher expects you to set off a populist rocket every so often, and you’re entitled to do that, and so is he. But I suggest you look into the Brigham grants more carefully before aiming your rocket in their direction.”
“Is the blackmail finished?” Mattison asked.
“Call it what you will, Arthur. As far as I am concerned, the discussion is closed. Would you like another drink?”
“I’m not sure. This isn’t the pleasantest cocktail hour I’ve ever spent.”
“Have another one anyway. I have another surprise for you.”
“No, Reuben, actually, I think I’ll be going,” Mattison said. “But what is your second surprise? I don’t quite see how you’re going to top the first.”
“The last edition of the Press is out for today, is it not?”
“Yes. Hours ago.”
“And of course there is no Sunday edition.”
“That’s right.”
“Too bad.”
“Reuben! Will you get to the point?” Mattison demanded.
“That’s too bad, because I think there’s a story of some interest that is about to break.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s in
the hands of the police. But you might do some calling around later this evening.”
“Me? I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to call the police! My mandate may be broad, but it doesn’t include the jailhouse.”
“Then you’d better get one of your police reporters on it. Ask him to call you when he gets the story, though. There might be a column in it.”
“Reuben, I demand to know what you’re talking about!”
“I’m a man of my word, Arthur. I told someone I wouldn’t say anything about this police matter. So I haven’t. And I won’t. But keep your ear to the ground, Arthur.”
Frost looked at his watch. “Actually, I should go too,” Frost said. “May I say I’ve enjoyed this immensely?”
The two men stood up and went out together. As they parted, Mattison turned serious. “I hope you meant what you said about that damned letter, Reuben. And for my part, I think I’ll have another look at the Brigham Foundation. Your comments have been most helpful.”
“I did mean what I said about the letter. And I think some further looking at Brigham would be interesting.”
“As will the report from the police station?”
“I think so. Goodbye, Arthur.”
Frost felt both elation and anticipation as he walked home. He had not blackmailed Mattison, he told himself. He had merely relieved the man of what must have been a lingering doubt and worry—for which Mattison should have been grateful—and made a constructive suggestion about the man’s criticism. All very innocent, yet he knew he would not tell Cynthia what he had done.
While Frost was going about his errands, Luis Bautista was sitting in the front passenger seat of an unmarked police car parked on West Seventy-third Street, between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue. Within a few feet of the car was the canopy extending out from the front door of Veronica May-wood’s apartment house.
Bautista was nervous. In his nine years on the police force he had arrested scores of murderers, of both sexes. Deranged psychotics holding innocents as hostages; desperate four-time losers barricaded behind tenement doors; monstrous young delinquents devoid of any trace of human emotion. He had seen all kinds, had arrested all kinds.
What Bautista had not done was arrest a celebrity. Granted, Veronica Maywood was not Elizabeth Taylor. But she was certainly well known—preeminently so in the ballet world—and, like most established New York celebrities, was probably tightly connected to those who ran at least one of the City’s daily newspapers.
He had no doubt that Maywood was guilty of arranging Clifton Holt’s murder. But he still was uneasy, wanting to make sure that she was arrested smoothly and quietly. A longtime colleague, Chris DuBois, was beside him in the driver’s seat of the car. Down the block, two more detectives were posted in another vehicle, Dan Gallup and Betsy Crane.
A morning check with the airlines flying to New York from Pittsburgh showed Maywood with a reservation on a flight arriving at LaGuardia at three in the afternoon. The police stakeout had begun at one—just in case the ballerina had switched to an earlier flight. The doorman at Maywood’s apartment house, normally a casual, laid-back young man impervious to third-party direction, had been sufficiently dazzled by Bautista’s shield—and those of his colleagues—that he had agreed to turn on the building’s taxi call light to signal Maywood’s arrival.
Bautista had cased the lobby of the building with care. The elevators were no longer manned, though it was clear that in more elegant days they had been. The tug-at-the-forelock operators of times gone by had been replaced by an electronic panel controlled by the doorman; no person could get by elevator to a higher floor unless the doorman activated a switch on this panel.
Bautista had never encountered this electronic compromise of the affluent before, but he understood its possibilities immediately: Veronica Maywood, as the owner of an apartment in the building, would arrive, get into the elevator, and be sent to her floor by the doorman. Except that if the doorman didn’t activate the starting switch, she would be trapped in a closed, and stationary, box.
He instructed the doorman to entrap Maywood in just this way. The young man protested that he could not treat a tenant of the building like that, but Bautista convinced him otherwise.
“Buddy, the woman we’re after may be your tenant, but we’re here to arrest her for arranging a murder,” Bautista told him. “We want as little trouble as possible, and no mess—no wild gunshots that hit innocent bystanders. Like you, for example. You follow?”
“Okay, okay,” the doorman answered. “I’ll turn on the taxi light and lock her in the elevator. What the hell, I just work here.”
Once the ground rules were established, there was nothing to do but wait. It was at times like this that Bautista wished he smoked. Smoking was vile and unhealthful, but at least it was something to do.
Both Bautista and DuBois were staring at the signal light atop the canopy in front of them when a taxi drew up. Veronica Maywood, dance bag and overnight case in hand, got out and hurried quickly inside the building.
The four police were on the street before the prearranged light signal flashed. Once inside the entrance, the doorman indicated that their quarry was indeed in the elevator with the door closed. The quartet surrounded the door and called to the doorman to press the button that would open it.
As the door opened, Maywood leaned out to shout at the doorman. “Dammit, Tommy, will you press the button for six?” she demanded angrily. Then she saw the police arrayed in front of her.
“What the hell is this?” she asked, a frightened look in her eyes.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said, turning to Bautista. “Aren’t you Cynthia Frost’s friend?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Bautista answered.
“Well, what do you want from me?”
“We’re here to arrest you, Miss Maywood,” Bautista said.
“Arrest! May I ask what for?” the woman demanded, her voice defiant, but a look of fear still in her eyes.
“For arranging the murder of Clifton Holt,” Bautista replied.
The mention of Holt’s name, or the crime she was accused of, sent Maywood into a wild frenzy. She shouted obscenity after obscenity at her accusers and tried to break past them outside the elevator. Restrained by Gallup and Crane, she became even crazier, bending over and biting Gallup’s hand so deeply that he collapsed on the floor, screaming in pain.
Any remaining politeness and deference disappeared as Bautista and his two remaining colleagues realized what had happened to Gallup. They wrestled Maywood into submission and carted her, still screaming and cursing and dripping Gallup’s blood from her chin like a vampire, to one of the waiting police cars. The one with the wire cage in the back for locking in violent prisoners.
When Reuben Frost got home, Cynthia was waiting for him.
“Where have you been? You missed Luis’ call,” she said.
“Nowhere, really. I got rid of Andrea Turnbull—I think once and for all—and then had a drink at the Gotham, which I needed after my session with her.”
“Well, Luis called about a half-hour ago. Poor Veronica was arrested when she got home, a little before four.”
“Did she go quietly?”
“She badly bit the hand of one of the policemen.”
“Poor girl. I’m sure the whole thing was a crazy, drug-filled fantasy that unfortunately she made real.”
“I know, I know. Combining cocaine with a ballerina’s inherent selfishness was enough to undo her. But it’s over, dear, with most of the players intact.” She embraced her husband and held him tightly. “We’re supposed to go to the ballet tonight, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Has anyone told Arne he has to replace Veronica?”
23
THE SHOW GOES ON
Reuben and Cynthia Frost watched the early news on television and were relieved that, in the Saturday lull, there was no mention of Veronica Maywood’s arrest. Reuben, in his earlier call to Arne Petersen, had told him the
news, but had asked him not to tell anyone else. Frost had also asked him to assemble the Company and the orchestra members backstage at the Zacklin prior to the evening’s performance so that he could tell the NatBallet personnel himself.
Frost also reached Teresa Holt, who, to his surprise, burst into tears when she was told the circumstances of her husband’s murder. He then called Peter Howard, the Company’s President, who, once he had recovered from the news, agreed to try to reach as many of the directors as possible to relay the startling message.
The Frosts arrived at the theatre a half-hour before the eight-o’clock curtain and sought out Petersen backstage. He embraced them both in the tight, clasping manner reserved for occasions of great emotion.
“I can’t believe it, Reuben. Veronica could be a handful, but this …” His voice trailed off. “When did you know about it?”
Frost told him the story, tactfully omitting mention of Petersen’s erstwhile status as a suspect.
“Arne, who will be dancing Paganini tonight?” Cynthia asked, when Reuben had finished his account to the dazed Acting Artistic Director.
“Hailey,” Petersen replied. “Hailey Coles. She’s never done it before, but she’s been rehearsing it.”
Frost was inwardly relieved, somehow, that Laura Russell would not be replacing Maywood. Besides, the chance to see a dancer as promising as Hailey Coles in her debut in a major role was exciting.
Murder Takes a Partner Page 23