Frost’s luck having held this far, how could he now prove that the person was visiting Gruen? He couldn’t just burst in on the two of them, shouting “This is a raid!”
Then he got an idea, based on a lifetime’s experience with indiscreet admissions over the telephone. Most secretaries and receptionists would guard with their lives what they thought were secrets, or what they were told were secrets. If, for example, Frost called Gruen’s secretary and asked her if X were meeting with Jeffrey Gruen, there would be no way that she would reveal this private information. But if he called and told her that he understood X was meeting with Mr. Gruen, and that he wanted to leave X a message, she would invariably say, being eager to please, “Fine, I’ll deliver your message just as soon as X comes out of Mr. Gruen’s office.”
That is almost precisely what happened. Frost went to a building across the street—no point in lingering where he might be spotted—found a pay telephone, looked up Gruen’s number and placed a call, after waiting a good fifteen minutes to give his prey time to begin meeting with Gruen. He was nervous; what if Gruen himself should answer? Then he realized he was quite in control of the situation, always having the option to hang up if his scheme did not work.
But it did work. Once he reached Jeffrey Gruen’s secretary, he not only was told that the person Frost was stalking was in Gruen’s office but that their meeting had begun five minutes earlier. Then she asked what the message was.
Rather than hang up, Frost concocted a message. “Just tell him Albert called”—the Albert being the Prince Albert Frost remembered from childhood pranks, as in “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?”—“and ask him to call me at 799–1562.”
Albert’s number was made up, too. But what was very real was Frost’s confirmation that Frost’s prey and Jeffrey Gruen were talking. That was one Frost would have to think over very carefully.
QUESTIONS
22
Reuben Frost left the Park Avenue telephone booth with a feeling of triumph. But the feeling dissipated as he walked crosstown toward Fifth Avenue and the Gotham Club. On the one hand, he was eminently pleased with the combination of luck and guile that had established a meeting with Jeffrey Gruen; on the other, he realized that his new knowledge, in and of itself, could hardly form the basis for a murder indictment.
The trick was to build on the information he now had, to go from a random fact to an unbeatable circumstantial case. Could that be done? He was not sure, but he was certainly going to try. What he needed was an hour of absolute and undisturbed peace and quiet, of solitude. At four o’clock in the afternoon, there was no better place for this than the library of the Gotham.
“Jasper, is there anyone in the library?” Frost asked of young Darmes, at the club’s front door.
“Not a soul, Mr. Frost,” the young man replied. “A couple of gentlemen are taking cocktails in the bar, but otherwise the place is deserted.”
Frost was pleased at this news, and headed directly for the upstairs library, avoiding the bar. The room, which contained wood paneling or books on every square inch of its walls, was almost dark and completely deserted, as promised. Frost rummaged on the top of the desk of the part-time librarian (whose duties were performed in the morning) and found a yellow legal pad. He sat down in an armchair beside a window looking out on Fifth Avenue and began writing with his fountain pen.
As he had done so often in the course of his legal career, he tried to organize his thoughts and questions and problems by writing them down in some logical order. Sitting in the library’s dim light, he wrote rapidly for a few minutes and then edited what he had written, crossing out and amending as he went. Then a few moments lost in thought, his head buried in his right hand. Then more writing, more scratching out, more thought.
After an hour had gone by, he was satisfied with the product he had written and rewritten on six yellow pages. He went back to the librarian’s desk and placed a series of telephone calls through the club operator: first to Cynthia, asking her to arrange dinner at their home for five people, then to Castagno and Bautista, inviting them to dine (and making very clear to them that a refusal was, if not an unacceptable answer, a not very wise one) and finally to Edith Clare, a young paralegal at Chase & Ward who had done some research work for him in the past.
Frost’s wife uncomplainingly agreed to be the hostess at her husband’s unusual convocation, and the two police officers and Clare accepted his invitation. This accomplished, he sat down in the library once again to review his handiwork, editing and changing it one more time.
The three guests of the Frosts all arrived shortly after eight o’clock. Reuben explained the situation to Ms. Clare, who had been puzzled by the summons to the Frost house.
“I’ve been working with these officers in trying to solve the killings of Flemming Andersen and his daughter Sorella,” he told the paralegal. “I’m sure you’ve read about the murders in the papers.”
“Oh yes. And they were clients of the office, weren’t they?” she answered.
“That’s right,” Frost said. “By the way, I’m going to have to ask you, Ms. Clare, not to discuss anything that’s said tonight with anyone. Just assume that everything is confidential.”
“Okay.”
“Why are you here, you may ask,” Frost said, addressing the group. “The answer is that up to now the search for the murderer has gotten nowhere. Is that a fair statement, gentlemen?” he said, turning to the two policemen.
“Claro!” Bautista said, startling Frost with his unusual reversion to Spanish.
“But we may be on the verge of a breakthrough. If we are, it’s going to require a real search for detailed evidence—including, Ms. Clare—”
“Please call me Edith.”
“Edith. Including some miscellaneous digging for information that I think you can help with.”
“Fine,” the girl said. “It’s bound to be more interesting than the document-sorting I’ve been doing for the last month.”
“Would any of you like some iced tea?” Cynthia said, coming into the living room. “Reuben has banned alcohol until after what he calls his presentation.”
“I’m sorry about doing that,” Frost said. “But I think we all need clear heads to help me work through my plan. I’ll make up for it with an abundance of wine at dinner.”
Castagno’s face fell when he realized that Frost was implying that their business would have to be completed before dinner would be served.
“It’s just like the medieval jury. We were just reading about that in Crim Law,” Bautista observed, referring to his night school legal studies. “No food, drink or fire until there’s a verdict. So what’s the story, Reuben? What’s the big surprise you told us about?”
“Patience, Luis,” Frost said. “Before I tell you, I want to know what you’ve found out about people’s alibis for the crucial hours on the murder days.”
Bautista was disappointed, but realized that Frost was setting the agenda.
“Who do you want to hear about?” the detective said.
“What about Diana Andersen?” Frost asked.
“She claims she was at a fitness center in New York both nights, from five to seven,” Bautista said. “Place called Maud’s,” he added, after consulting his notebook.
“What does Maud say?”
“His name isn’t Maud. Big bruiser named Toby Jervis runs the place and he backs up her story. Says she comes there every other day.”
“Does that eliminate her?” Frost asked.
“I dunno. The guy is obviously big buddies with her, but he seemed kind of shifty to me. We checked him out. He had a minor record some years ago, but seems to have been clean since he started his gym.”
“Doesn’t he have a sign-in sheet, or anything like that?” Frost asked.
“Yes, but he throws the signed pages away almost at once—or so he says.”
“You think he may be covering for Diana?”
“Yes, he may be. But I can�
��t be sure.”
“So you can’t rule her out on the basis of her alibi?”
“Right.”
“What about Robbins?”
“I looked into that,” Castagno said. “His wife corroborates his story that he was at home both evenings. He even remembers what he had to eat those nights, and so does his wife.”
“Do they have a cook?” Cynthia asked.
“They said not. Mrs. Robbins does the cooking,” Castagno said.
“That’s what you get, Miss Clare, for marrying a husband who makes a million dollars a year,” Cynthia said, addressing the visiting paralegal.
“What time do they eat?” Frost asked, ignoring his wife’s interruption.
“Between eight-thirty and nine.”
“So, if that’s true, Casper could—just barely—have ducked over to Greenwich, committed the murders, and then rushed home in time for dinner,” Frost said. “But it’s not very probable.”
“Yes,” said Castagno.
“Do you have any reason to doubt their stories?” Frost asked.
“No, I don’t,” Castagno answered. “I just wish I’d been able to pin their alibi down with someone else’s verification.”
“How about Billy O’Neal?” Frost asked.
“His story is very fishy,” Bautista said. “Claims he was at the New York Athletic Club both times, but they have no record of his being there. No bar chits, nothing.”
“I know,” Frost said. “He called over the weekend to complain about ‘police harassment.’ He’s very hurt that you don’t believe him.”
“So we’ve got more work to do on him,” Bautista said.
“Then there’s Laurance,” Frost said. “Any new thoughts on that one?”
“Well, he was in Greenwich the night his sister was killed,” Castagno said. “Says he was napping and slept through the whole thing.”
“But of course we know he was in California two nights earlier when his father was murdered,” Bautista added.
“That leaves Sally Andersen and Nate Perkins. They were in Greenwich on Tuesday and Thursday,” Frost said, getting up to refill his iced tea from the pitcher his wife had left on the coffee table.
“And what about Jeffrey Gruen? What did you find out about him?” Frost asked.
“He wouldn’t talk to us,” Bautista said. “Absolutely refused.”
“On lawyer’s advice?”
“He didn’t say that. Just said he was goddamned if he’d talk to a goddamned cop about anything.”
“How could he be the murderer?” Cynthia said. “He’d never been to the family estate, had he? How would he know about the whirlpool and the Dobermans?”
“As far as we know, he’d never been there,” Frost said. “It’s very unlikely he ever was there, and Sally Andersen said that as far as she knows he never was. So we’re punching feathers once again. But now let me tell you something that happened today that was not punching feathers.”
Frost recounted the afternoon’s events, and his success in finding out with whom Gruen had met. The two policemen, his wife and the newly involved paralegal listened with amazement as Frost described his afternoon’s work and the conclusions he drew from it. They were further surprised when he pulled out his six-page battle plan prepared earlier at the Gotham.
“Our task is threefold—to uncover every possible clue, to pin down the murderer or murderers and to rule out the others from suspicion. This means you gentlemen have got to go over the ground you’ve covered already—this time not with a magnifying glass but an electron microscope. I’m confident that will eliminate most of our suspects and blast apart the alibi of the guilty party.”
Castagno and Bautista looked perplexed.
“But, Reuben, we’ve been working like dogs on this thing, with no success. We appreciate your pep talk, but I don’t see what more we can do,” Bautista said.
“Let me make some suggestions,” Frost said, consulting his sheets of yellow foolscap. For the next few minutes, he doled out tasks for Castagno and Bautista, and Ms. Clare as well.
“What are you going to do?” Bautista asked finally.
“Unfortunately, there’s very little I can help with. The one thing I probably can do better than you fellows is find out where Billy O’Neal really was during those hours he claimed to be at the NYAC. Otherwise, it’s up to the rest of you.”
His listeners remained dubious, even after they had absorbed their assigned duties.
“Cheer up, my friends,” Frost said, sensing their doubts. “I tell you if you pay attention to every little detail, we’ll get this thing licked.”
“Can we eat now?” Cynthia asked, sensing that the business portion of the evening was winding up.
“Yes,” her husband said. “And drink as well.”
Cynthia had prepared a roast of beef. Her guests all ate with relish and drank deeply of the good-quality burgundy Frost served. They continued to talk “business” through the meal, more relaxed now after food and drink.
“Reuben, if your scheme works, I’d say you’re a damn genius and ought to be the Police Commissioner,” Bautista said.
“And if I’m wrong, I’m just another silly old fool meddling in other people’s business,” Frost answered.
“I hope I’m married to the would-be Police Commissioner and not the silly old fool,” Cynthia said, raising her glass. “Good luck to all of you.”
FAMILY GATHERING: III
23
After dispersing his small army, Frost became increasingly restless.
“You’re as nervous as a witch,” his wife said to him the next night, as they were having dinner at Elaine’s.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” he snapped. “I’ve got people tearing all over trying to prove my theory about the Andersen murders. The problem is, I may be totally wrong. In which case I’ll look damn foolish.”
“But no one will know except your friend Bautista and that policeman from Connecticut. And the paralegal from Chase & Ward.”
“She’s the one I’m worried about,” Frost said. “If I’m wrong, she’ll broadcast it all over the firm in five minutes. ‘Let me tell you what Reuben Frost had me doing last week. He’s completely gaga.…’ Do you know how happy George Bannard would be to hear something like that?”
Frost shook his head vigorously, as if trying to expel from it all images of Chase & Ward’s Executive Partner.
Frost’s mood improved as a glamorous Debra Winger swept past his table, and Pepe, the place’s cheerful maître d’, offered him and Cynthia a digestif.
“Who is that?” Frost asked his wife. He could tell Ms. Winger was a movie star but, as was usually the case, could not place her.
“Debra Winger,” Cynthia said. “An Officer and a Gentleman, Black Widow …”
Oh yes,” her husband said. “She’s quite good-looking, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Reuben.”
“I mean, she’s very good-looking.”
“Yes, Reuben.”
“Who’s that kid with her?”
“Her husband.”
“Good heavens.”
As the Frosts finished off their drinks (Cognac for him, Port for her), Cynthia tried to capitalize on the uplift Ms. Winger appeared to have given to her husband’s psyche. “I’m sure your team is out there even as we speak,” she said. “And they’re going to prove you right and solve the murders.”
Early Wednesday, Jeffrey Gruen called Casper Robbins—Frost would have given a great deal to have heard their conversation—to tell the AFC executive that he had waited long enough and that the tender offer by Gruen & Company would be announced that afternoon. Absent support from AFC’s Board, the offer would be irrevocable, “subject only to finalization of bank financing,” at thirty-eight dollars for each AFC share.
Frost kept in nervous contact with Castagno, Bautista and Ms. Clare, getting progress reports on their activities. Then, on Saturday morning, two vital pieces of the puzzle Frost had constructed fell int
o place. He called Sally Andersen immediately and asked her to assemble the group he named that very night at her home in Greenwich.
“Does this mean you know who the killer is?” Sally asked.
“I’m ninety-five percent sure,” Frost answered.
“And your idea is to confront the killer at my house?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause on the other end.
“Are you sure this is the best thing to do, Reuben?” she finally asked.
“I think it is.”
“Then I’ll do it, even if it means inviting Casper Robbins into my house,” Sally said. “But what about spouses? Are they invited?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Frost said. “Though I suppose it would be hard to leave them out on a Saturday night.”
“Will Cynthia be coming?”
“Yes,” Frost said. “I want her there for moral support. And because she’d never forgive me if she were left out.”
Frost asked Sally to let him know who accepted her invitation. Within the hour, Sally Andersen called back to say that all who had been invited had done so.
Frost had earlier checked with Castagno and Bautista; Bautista would remain in Manhattan, but Castagno would assemble a team to make an arrest at the Andersen estate. The lawyer now called Castagno back to tell him everything had been settled and that the detective and his group should muster outside the Andersen home at eight-fifteen that evening, a quarter hour after Sally Andersen’s soiree was to begin.
Frost rented a limousine to go to Connecticut and left Seventieth Street, with his wife, shortly after five o’clock. Cynthia could not get over how much the events of recent days had energized her husband. Always vigorous, at least relative to his age, he was now positively bursting with energy. He was quite sure that he had solved the puzzle, though there were still some nagging doubts.
Trapped now in the backseat of the large black Cadillac he had hired, he began to show his uneasiness.
“Do you realize if I’m wrong I can be sued for slander?” Frost asked his wife.
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