Murder for Lunch

by Haughton Murphy

  Frost then decided to call Dawson Evans in Washington. Evans had been a contemporary of Frost at Chase & Ward, and in fact had flown up from Washington for Donovan’s funeral. He had left Chase & Ward shortly after becoming a partner to work in the Justice Department as an Assistant Attorney General. By the time his tour of duty was over, he had been sufficiently blinded by the bright lights of Washington that he wanted to stay there rather than return to what had then seemed to him Chase & Ward’s mundane, apolitical practice. He had stayed and had become a leading Washington lawyer, well-connected and well-heeled, and, most recently, a patriarch of the Democratic Party.

  Frost was lucky again, and caught up with Evans as he was coming off the golf course at Burning Tree Country Club.

  “Damn, Frost, you’re almost as clever as a White House telephone operator,” Evans told him. “What can I do for my old partner in crime?”

  Frost explained about Singer’s disappearance (but not about Donovan’s murder) and asked if there was any way Evans could discreetly check whether Singer was off on CIA business.

  “That’s a tall order, Reuben, but I’ll see what I can do. If it will help to relieve Anne’s mind, I’ll make it top priority first thing in the morning,” Evans told him. Anne Singer’s red hair had apparently made another conquest.

  As he hung up, Frost realized that he had not told Cynthia he was going to the office, so she presumably thought he was still with Anne. He quickly picked up the receiver and told her he would be right home.

  “How was the tryst?” Cynthia asked her husband sardonically once he had arrived.

  “Very public. Your friend Irene Morgan was watching us the whole time.”

  “Good.”

  “Anne Singer is a very distraught woman.”

  “Why?”

  “Roger has disappeared. No message, nothing. And I’ve been spending the afternoon trying to track him down in Europe. No luck. He’s been depressed ever since getting back from some dirty tricks mission last January.”

  “Dirty tricks?”

  “You know, CIA dirty tricks.”

  “Murder, perhaps?”

  “Oh, Cynthia, let’s not even think about it—or about its implications. But yes, murder it could have been.”

  “So Roger is good at it, is he?”

  “Cynthia, come on. We can’t go on with these wild speculations. Let’s just leave it that Roger Singer has been in a depression for several months and that now he has disappeared. All right?”

  “Yes, dear. I wasn’t trying to bait you,” Cynthia said. “What you need is a good, relaxing movie.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a Hitchcock revival at the Beekman. I forget which one.”

  “Let’s go. It doesn’t matter. Busman’s holiday.”

  NEW INFORMATION

  17

  When Frost got to his office Monday morning, Dawson Evans had already called and left a message. Frost returned the call and was not surprised to find that Evans had drawn a blank with his contacts at the CIA. As far as they could determine—or as far as they would admit—Roger Singer was not traveling on an agency mission.

  Finding Singer was Frost’s first priority. Anne’s warning about the possibility of suicide, however improbable, had scared him. And though Frost really refused to believe it and could not explain how it might have come about, there was always the possibility that by locating Singer one would locate Donovan’s killer as well.

  Frost managed to reach Jean Albert, the remaining person on the list Merritt had furnished him the day before, after a series of calls to Paris and London. M. Albert, a shy French multimillionaire who invested quietly in various projects in the United States, relied on Singer as a listening post and as a guide to the complexities of the American laws that might trap an unwary foreigner—disclosure requirements, tax withholding and all the rest. When a new fancy struck him, it was not unusual for M. Albert to summon Singer to Paris, or wherever M. Albert might happen to be, to discuss it. But that was not the case this time. M. Albert told Frost he had not spoken with Singer in three weeks and had no current plans for a personal meeting with him.

  A check with Chase & Ward’s petty cash window was also unavailing. Frost was assured that Mr. Singer had not recently cashed a check in any unusually large amount.

  Through a series of discreet calls around the office, Frost gathered a list of contacts at TWA, Pan American and Air France—Chase & Ward had participated in aircraft financings involving all three lines—and then checked to see if there was any record of Singer’s departure for Europe on Thursday or Friday. By the end of the morning, he had gotten back negative answers from all three; either Singer had not used the lines or had used an assumed name.

  Amid the airline calls, Frost’s secretary interrupted to say that Detective Bautista was waiting in the reception room. Frost told her to send him down.

  “What’s new, Officer?” Frost asked, preemptively.

  “You tell me.”

  “Well, there are a couple of things to tell. They’re things I should not only be telling you but George Bannard as well. Do you mind if the three of us meet together?”

  “Of course not,” Bautista said, then adding, “You know, Mr. Frost, I think that you think I resent Mr. Bannard’s tongue-lashing the other day. And maybe I do. But compared with some of the verbal abuse you get in my job, it really was nothing.”

  “Good. There was nothing personal about it, I assure you.”

  “Usually there is. The accusation most often involves having sexual relations with my mother.”

  “I don’t think that’s part of George’s vocabulary. Not usually, at any rate.”

  The two men smiled and went down the hall to Bannard’s office.

  “Good morning, Reuben. Good morning, Mr. Baptista,” Bannard said.

  “Bautista,” the detective corrected him.

  “I’m sorry. Bautista. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “George, I thought you should be kept up to date on what’s going on, not that there’s very much,” Frost said.

  “Well, tell me what there is.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the big news is that Roger Singer has apparently disappeared,” Frost said.

  Both his listeners showed interest.

  “How do you know that?” Bannard asked.

  Frost told of his lunch with Anne Singer and his continuing efforts to locate her husband. References to the CIA and Anne’s relationship with Graham Donovan inevitably formed a part of the account. Bannard kept looking uneasily at Bautista.

  “Incidentally, I assume, Mr. Bautista, that all this scandalous information you are learning about us will be kept in confidence?”

  “To the extent it’s not relevant to my investigation, of course,” the detective replied. “I’m interested in finding the murderer, Mr. Bannard, not writing an exposé of your firm.”

  Bannard grunted, then said, “Well, Reuben, it sounds like you’ve become a transcontinental detective. How do you feel about Mr. Frost taking over your job, Officer?”

  Frost could not tell whether Bannard was sticking the knife into Bautista or not. In any event it didn’t seem to cause a wound, and Frost was pleased to hear the detective say that Frost’s efforts had been “very helpful.”

  Bautista then went on to relate the results of a meeting with Bruce Donovan on Saturday morning. He said that he had learned little that was new, except that the son was divorced, lived alone, and was profoundly bitter about his father. As for being on the premises of Chase & Ward, he said that he had not been there since his mother’s death.

  “So there’s nothing promising there?” Bannard asked.

  “It doesn’t appear so, sir,” Bautista answered.

  Frost was about to relate his other bit of information—the access of Alice Griffith to Pernon—when Bannard’s secretary interrupted to say that Ross Doyle wanted very badly to speak to Mr. Frost. The call was transferred and Frost to
ok it as the other men looked on. Putting down the telephone, he said that Doyle had what he described as some “interesting new information” and wanted to come over and relay it.

  “Damn,” Bannard said. “I’m late now for a Fidelity board meeting that I promised to attend. Can you gentlemen see him? I’ll be back later and you can tell me what’s happened.”

  “Of course, George. We’ll take care of it.”

  While they waited in Bannard’s office for Doyle, Frost told Bautista about Alice Griffith.

  “I think we’re going to have to talk to that young man,” Bautista said.

  “I agree,” Frost replied, as Doyle arrived.

  Frost introduced the private detective to the public one and both were introduced to a stolid young Irishman, named Sean Ryan, accompanying Doyle. Although Doyle did not say so, Frost guessed that Ryan, a red-faced youth in his early twenties, was probably a moonlighting policeman. Unlike Detective Bautista, he fitted Frost’s stereotype of the typical New York cop. Frost’s impression of moonlighting was reinforced when Ryan seemed distinctly uneasy as Bautista was introduced as a city detective.

  Doyle told Frost that he had consulted his laboratory friends and that, indeed, the distillate that had killed Donovan could have been derived from Pernon. The process was not at all difficult and could be carried out by anyone with the most rudimentary knowledge of laboratory techniques.

  But Doyle said the main purpose of his call was not to pass on this information but rather the information obtained by his helper Ryan. He said that Ryan had been following Grace Appleby since the decision had been made the previous Thursday to keep her under surveillence. Ryan reported that neither he nor another colleague who spelled him had observed anything unusual until the previous evening, when a young man had visited Appleby’s apartment in Chelsea, stayed for about fifteen minutes, and left, seemingly very angry.

  On the assumption that the young man may have been a Chase & Ward employee, Doyle asked if there was available a file of employees’ pictures. Frost said there was. Nonlawyers had always been asked to submit photos when they started work. And in recent years newly employed lawyers had been too, since someone along the line had decided that the biographies of new lawyers circulated around the firm should include photographs.

  “What did this fellow look like?” Frost asked of Ryan.

  “He was tall, very blond, and quite young-looking,” Ryan answered.

  Frost did not need to know more. Appleby’s visitor was more likely than not Perry Griffith. But it would be best to establish this through an orderly process.

  “Let’s start with my file of associates’ biographies, which include pictures,” Frost said. “If that doesn’t work, the individual personnel files of the other employees have photographs and you can search through them.”

  Frost asked his secretary to bring his associates’ file into the conference room next door to his office, where he left Doyle and Ryan to study the pictures.

  He was sure Ryan would pick out Griffith as the Sunday caller. But what did that mean? Had they perhaps plotted together in the Stephens Industries scheme? Or planned Graham Donovan’s murder? Or both? It was all distasteful, although Frost, after almost a week’s stress, was willing to accept an unhappy resolution to Donovan’s murder rather than no resolution.

  Frost and Bautista went to the cafeteria for coffee while Doyle and Ryan studied the pictures in Frost’s file.

  “I’m sure Grace Appleby’s visitor was the young man we’ve been talking about,” Frost said.

  “In that case, we’ve really got to talk to him,” Bautista replied.

  Twenty-five minutes after beginning their examination, Doyle and Ryan returned to Frost’s office. Ryan carried the notebook full of associates’ biographies, open to Griffith’s page.

  “This is the guy,” Ryan said.

  “You’re sure?” Frost asked.

  “Yes. He wasn’t wearing a hat, so his face and blond hair were perfectly visible. It was a clear night and I could see him easily from across the street,” Ryan said.

  “Where does Miss Appleby live? An apartment house?” Bautista asked.

  “Yes. Four twenty-two West Twentieth Street,” Ryan answered.

  “How did you know Griffith went to her apartment?” Bautista asked.

  “Two ways. I had memorized the location of the downstairs buzzer to her apartment—easy, since it was the bottom one on the panel—and could see from across the street when her buzzer was pushed. Second, I could see into the large front window of her apartment. The curtains weren’t drawn and I saw Griffith through the window before he sat down.”

  “What time was this?” Bautista asked.

  “About eight-ten, eight-fifteen.”

  “And the visit lasted about fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes. He was back on the street by eight-thirty.”

  “And you didn’t follow him?” Bautista asked.

  “No, sir. My orders were to stake out Appleby,” Ryan answered, somewhat dejected at the suggestion that perhaps he should have followed the young man.

  “Okay,” Bautista said. “Unless you disagree, Mr. Frost, I think you should talk to Perry Griffith. You said you’ve been working with him recently?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then my hunch is you may get more out of him talking to him alone. But I’ll be right here, in that conference room next door if you want me to join in—or if there’s any funny business. If there’s any trouble, just press the buzzer on your telephone to your secretary and she can come and get me.”

  “Do you fellows want to stay around?” Frost inquired of Doyle and Ryan.

  “Not unless you need us,” Doyle said. “I don’t think there’s any reason, do you, Officer?”

  “No,” Bautista answered.

  The four men went out, and Doyle and Ryan left. Frost explained the signal arrangement to a puzzled Miss O’Hara and asked her to summon Griffith to his office.

  Perry Griffith came into Frost’s office carrying the marked-up copy of the Frontier Utilities mortgage.

  “Good morning, Reuben.” He put the mortgage down on Frost’s worktable, assuming they were about to go through a side-by-side review of the text.

  “No, no, come sit over here,” Frost said, indicating the chair on the other side of his desk. Griffith picked up the mortgage and held it in his lap after seating himself in the designated chair.

  “I enjoyed sitting next to your wife Saturday night,” Frost began. “I don’t know how she does it—raising two children and finishing her residency at the same time.”

  “I don’t either,” Griffith said, grinning. “I think of myself as a hard worker, but I haven’t got a thing on Alice. She’s superorganized and she’s got more energy than I’ll ever have. She enjoyed talking with you, by the way.”

  “I’m glad,” Frost said, then looked at Griffith silently for a moment as if deliberately to change the mood.

  “Perry, I’m afraid I didn’t ask you in here to talk about Frontier Utilities,” Frost began. Griffith looked puzzled but said nothing.

  “I’ve got a very important question to ask you, Perry,” Frost said. “And let me say in advance that I think it would be in your very best interests to give me a full, complete and truthful answer.”

  Griffith remained impassive, but bobbed his head affirmatively and nervously several times.

  “What were you doing at Grace Appleby’s apartment last night?” Frost asked calmly but harshly.

  Griffith looked dumbfounded, his eyes popping slightly. “What do you mean?” he asked angrily.

  “Perry, you were seen in Grace Appleby’s apartment shortly after eight o’clock last night. You were there roughly fifteen minutes. What were you doing there?”

  “What is this, some sort of police state? What the hell kind of question is that?” Griffith was both agitated and angry, but he did not stir from his chair. “Reuben, I’ve worked here for almost eight years,” Griffith went on
. “During that time nobody has ever questioned either my work or my honesty, and you’re not going to start now!”

  “Perry, Perry, calm down please. Let’s take this thing slowly and quietly,” Frost said, emphasizing his words. “Now. Is it not true that you went to Miss Appleby’s apartment last night?”

  “What if it is?” Griffith shot back.

  “Let me repeat. Is it not true that you went to Grace Appleby’s apartment last night?”

  Again there was silence as Griffith seemed to reflect on the question. Then he said yes, very quietly.

  “And what were you doing there?” Frost said.

  Silence. Frost could all but see the inner works of Griffith’s brilliant mind whirring, searching for a safe answer. Then Griffith slightly but visibly slumped in his chair. The mental computer had not produced a suitably evasive answer.

  “Reuben, I’ll give it to you straight. I went to see Grace Appleby to ask her not to tell you that I had been in Graham Donovan’s office the morning he died. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And why were you concerned about that?”

  “Listen, when you talked to me on Friday, you were pretty desperate—you must have been, or you wouldn’t have told me about the water carafe, the poisoning. When I thought about it, I knew you didn’t have a suspect, but would love to have one—”

  “And it occurred to you that you might be one?”

  “Right. Graham was standing in the way of my becoming a partner. No question about that, as you yourself indicated. I had a motive, and I didn’t need Grace Appleby putting me anywhere near that water carafe.”

  “I assume she let you know that she had already told me that you had seen Graham Tuesday morning.”

  “Yes. Yes, she did.”

  “What else did she say?” Frost asked.

  “She wanted to know if I had poisoned Graham.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said the same thing I said to you last week. Maybe I had my grievances against Graham, maybe he was blocking the way to my becoming a partner, but that wasn’t reason enough to kill.” Griffith was shouting by now.