Murder Unrenovated Read online

  “Well, for God’s sake, don’t tell Mister Whosis!”

  “That’s not the only thing we won’t tell him.”

  “Why are you quitting? I thought you liked this job!”

  “I do. But I’d like more control over my own hours.”

  “Too many years on campus, I’d say,” sniffed Ellen. “You’re spoiled.”

  “Never claimed I wasn’t. But listen, Ellen, one thing still bothers me about this deal.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mrs. Northrup. Why doesn’t she want us?”

  “That’s easy. She’s afraid of you.”

  “But why? I like her, and though she won’t admit it, I really thinks she likes us.”

  “She probably does.”

  “And she’s furious at Lund and his dirty tricks.”

  “Of course. But he has one great virtue that you and Nick don’t have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He doesn’t plan to live in the house himself. You see, one of the very, very few ways to evict a rent-controlled tenant is for the owners to need the space for their own personal use.”

  “So Lund can’t dislodge her. And even though we won’t, she’s afraid because we have the power.” Maggie was on her feet now, bending to touch her toes.

  “That’s right. They’re talking about tightening the law, making you prove need before eviction, but they haven’t done it yet. Even then, you could withdraw it from the rental market and bounce her.”

  “I told her we wouldn’t need the space. But I guess she can’t quite trust the promises of a stranger.”

  Nick said, “That one wouldn’t trust the promises of George Washington himself.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” declared Ellen. “And I especially wouldn’t trust Maggie.” She ducked the good-natured roundhouse swing that Maggie aimed at her.

  “Well, if we have any money left over when Lund gets finished with us, we’ll have you draw up a lease or something that’ll set her mind at ease,” said Maggie.

  “Okay. And if you don’t have any money left over?”

  “You’ll just have to give us credit for a while.”

  “You’re crazy.” Ellen stood up haughtily and turned to the window. “I’d never extend credit to an actor and a woman of childbearing age.”

  “You lawyers are all heart.” Maggie joined Ellen at the window. “Look, O woman of childbearing age, isn’t that your actor coming now? Let’s drop this purchase offer in Len’s box and then go see Alice in Wonderland. After we eat.”

  “You statisticians are all stomach,” observed Nick, and this time it was his turn to duck.

  6

  “Dennis Burns.” Joyce shook her head. “I never heard the name. But Renata is checking the files for you.”

  “Anyone else?” asked Lieutenant Brugioni, glancing around the office. Len and Cronin shook their heads, and so did Renata. Fred Stein was off this Saturday, Karen taking a listing.

  “He was a waiter at the Henry Hotel for a couple of weeks. Have any of you been there?”

  Again the heads shook. Joyce said, “I never even heard of it.”

  Renata said, “A client we had maybe five years ago was staying there while he looked for a place. I remember the envelopes. But that’s the only time I heard of it.”

  “Well, it’s strange,” said Brugioni. “No one reported him missing, so he must have irregular hours, or maybe he’s living alone. The headwaiter said he was at work Monday, and when he didn’t show the next few days he was annoyed but not surprised. He tried the number Burns left but the guy who answered said he’d never heard of him, so he threw it away. Waiters aren’t all that dependable, he says. He saw the picture in the paper yesterday afternoon and identified him.”

  “What was he doing in Lund’s building?” asked Len.

  Brugioni shrugged. “We’ve still got a lot of questions. Let us know if you think of any connections.”

  Sunday was a glorious warm day, as though April was trying to atone on its last afternoon for all the cold and gloom that had gone before. Standing in the Bankses’ penthouse garden, Len felt he could almost see the leaves opening, ready to leap from bud to summer. Below them, Manhattan glistened, the winter’s grime suddenly irrelevant next to the sparkle of sun on glass and water. Closer at hand, crystal stemware twinkled, in honor of the unannounced anniversary that everyone knew about. Around Len and in the dining room behind him, men in dark suits and women in bright miniskirts or flaring party pajamas chattered in the soft air. Len too was wearing his best suit and holding a glass of twelve-year-old Scotch as he discussed Vietnam strategy with Fred Stein and a man from the mayor’s office. On a wrought-iron bench near him, Nancy, in a dress of tender blue, was smiling politely at Gordon Banks.

  Len was almost fond of Banks, certainly grateful. After college in the late sixties, lucky to have drawn a high number in the draft lottery, Len had hit the streets with his highly unmarketable degree in art history. He’d finally found a job as assistant to an assistant in the tiny New York office of one of Banks’s resort projects. For a year he had run errands and answered phones, and even sold a few package weekends to groups. One day, writing up a sale, he had noticed some discrepancies in the books. After a bit of soul-searching and a deep discussion with Nancy, he had reported it to the division head. The next week came the news: the resort was sold, the office was permanently closed, they had all been fired, and Len was summoned to Banks’s Wall Street office.

  “Thinking of shedding that one anyway,” Banks had said. “Don’t want you feeling guilty about those fellows. Not your fault. Though you helped explain the lousy bottom line. Not worth prosecuting him, though, you see. Evidence pretty slippery unless we subpoena customers, and we don’t want to do that.”

  “Yes, I see, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me. This isn’t the army. Where’d you grow up?”

  “Brooklyn. Near Ebbetts Field.”

  “So did my wife. Do you like selling, Trager?”

  “I didn’t do much selling. I guess I’m not really a salesman. I don’t like pushing people. But when they came to me I liked it. I was good at finding them the package that suited them. I liked helping them.”

  “Perfect,” Banks decided abruptly, scribbling on a card. “You’re a Stewart.”

  “What?”

  “Jimmy Stewart. You look sincere.”

  “Oh.”

  “Joyce needs someone sincere in Brooklyn. Park Slope.” Banks handed Len the card. “She’ll give you something to live on while you’re training and a percentage of commissions, and your buyers and sellers will generally come to you.”

  Joyce had directed him to the cheap, desirable apartment he and Nancy shared now. A nice fringe benefit. But not big enough for a baby.

  The man from the mayor’s office moved back to the bar for a refill. Fred bobbed his gray head to sip his drink and left the topic of Quang Tri abruptly. “Len, have you had a chance to think about my development plan?”

  “Fred, I’m flattered you asked. But at the moment I don’t want to start anything without Joyce’s approval. I’d better say no.”

  “But this would raise your income in the long run, Len! You know Joyce is never going to entrust the big dollars to anyone else but herself. We’ll be limping along with these little fifty-thousand properties forever. Dr. Carr’s group is solid. And asking for you.”

  “Just because of that sketch?”

  “Exactly! The problem with developers, they say, is that they have no vision. And God, I agree, but I know I can’t do it either. But you just sketched it out and half the stuff was there already when they pulled down the paneling.”

  There was more here than met the eye, Len felt. Reluctant to hurt the other man, he said, “Fred, it’s an appealing idea. But why don’t they get an architect? What’s so urgent about getting me? I can’t afford to antagonize Joyce. I owe her and Gordon. And anyway, if I say no, it’s not the end for you, is it?”
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br />   An uncomfortable smile twitched at Fred’s mouth. “Well, it would take a while to find another partner.”

  “Is Carr in a rush?”

  “Well, you know, strike while the iron is hot.”

  “The doctors don’t need it instantly, but you do. Right?”

  “Well—I’ll manage, really. Loan coming due. Balloon.”

  “Boy, I can sympathize with that! Bankers don’t take any excuses. But there must be someone else who can help, Fred. I’m in Joyce’s good books now. I can’t sacrifice that.”

  “Don’t count on that lasting forever,” said Fred darkly.

  “I know, but now isn’t the time for me to move. Maybe you should put out a few feelers to other guys you know.”

  “Well, the truth is, Len, I know I can work with you. So think it over, okay?” He bobbed off toward the bar.

  Len drifted toward Banks and Nancy. She had not been enthusiastic about this party. For four days, she had been subdued and pensive, and he knew that the decision she faced filled her with pain. When they were together he avoided the subject, tried to keep things pleasant, to smooth her life as much as he could. He wondered how much longer she could delay before she had to decide, but he didn’t dare ask. Time rolled on; after a while, no decision was a decision. He ached for the choice to be made, so that he could do something, take action, come to grips with whatever she decided. But he mustn’t pressure her. He had to wait helplessly on the sidelines.

  “Well, hello, Trager!” said Banks, with tipsy enthusiasm. He had been leaning very close to Nancy, but now sat up straighter. He held a drink in one hand, a cane in the other. Beneath the flawlessly tailored trousers his legs were in steel braces, but his forceful enthusiasm could still dominate any conversation. “Your fiancée here has been explaining advertising layouts to me.”

  Damn. Len tried to look an apology to Nancy, but she was inspecting her drink, tight-lipped. To Banks he said, “Yes, she’s doing very well now.”

  “She is indeed. I’m looking forward to seeing the Maclntyre catalog. In fact, our Grosvenor division may want to try your firm, Nancy.”

  “You wouldn’t regret it,” said Len. “It’s a talented outfit.”

  “Now, Nan, tell us your complaint about the Pine Island campaign.”

  “The campaign’s fine,” Nancy said. “It’s the logo. The campaign is stressing elite, solid, upper-class values. Golf, luxury hotels, yachts. But the logo is still in those thin light-blue letters with little seagulls dotting the I’s. Very insubstantial.”

  “That’s true.” Banks’s shrewd eyes fastened on her. Perhaps he wasn’t as tipsy as he’d seemed. “You think the symbol should be more upper-class?”

  “Not only more upper-class, but more solid, dependable. Seagulls are fine if you just want to say freedom. They don’t say wealth or status.”

  “You’re right. Holcomb!” A thin gray man detached himself from a nearby group and joined them.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Wayne Marks we’re getting a new logo for Pine Island. I’ve decided I don’t like that Jonathan Livingston Seagull look. They’re to commission Glow Graphics to design it. I want to hear from them tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Holcomb had noted it in his little book.

  “That’s all,” said Banks, and Holcomb moved obediently away.

  “Wow!” Nancy’s face crinkled into her heartwarming smile. Len relaxed. “You move fast, Mr. Banks!”

  “When something needs doing, don’t hesitate,” he said, beaming back at her. “That’s the secret of success. Well, one of the secrets.”

  “We won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t. Trager,” said Banks, “Joyce tells me you were asking about apartment development. That’s not a bad idea here. Good way to support a family.”

  “Excuse me,” said Nancy, standing up abruptly. “It’s time for the powder room. See you in a few minutes.”

  “Yes indeed.” Banks smiled after her as she retreated toward the French doors. “Splendid young woman, Trager. Splendid.”

  “I think so too.” Len took her place next to him on the bench.

  “Splendid fiancée.”

  “Um, yes.” Len couldn’t tell him that “fiancée” was one of the words that spooked Nancy. So was “family.” Don’t even mention marriage. But to someone like Gordon Banks, who celebrated anniversaries, her views would be anathema. Len felt a sudden pang of anxiety. If she had the baby, what would Banks think? And Joyce?

  “You know,” Banks was saying, “she reminds me of Joyce.”

  Len was startled. Delicate Nancy didn’t seem at all like the statuesque Joyce to him. “Blond?” he hazarded.

  Banks laughed. Yes, he was definitely a little soused. “Well, that too,” he said confidentially. “I’ve always liked a handsome blond. My first wife was blond too. But I was thinking of the ambition, the drive. I like that in a woman. Makes them interesting. No dull moments.”

  “That’s certainly true.”

  “You have to give them their heads a little,” Banks went on in boozy good fellowship. “It can be very hard for a woman sometimes. Very difficult. You should help them along, help them find goals, help them toward those goals.”

  “Yes. I try to.” Nancy, of course, found her own goals. But Len saw that it was paternal-advice time. He tried to look filial. Through the branches of the potted trees, the sun sparkled cheerfully. Nancy had disappeared indoors.

  “You’re still young. You don’t have any big problems yet,” Banks informed him. He had finished his drink. “But when the problems come, you have to help them along.” He looked hard at Len. “You don’t follow.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly try to help her,” said Len lamely. “But sometimes she’s pretty independent.”

  Banks clapped Len on the shoulder, adjusting his braced feet and bending closer. “No, you don’t quite follow. It’s my Nixon, Joyce calls it.” He was nodding, a bit embarrassed, a bit amused. “My Nixon.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry, I still don’t follow.”

  Banks frowned, concentrated on communicating. “The diabetes,” he said. “You knew I had diabetes?”

  “Joyce mentioned it once.”

  “Yes. Does a lot of strange things to a fellow. Joints give out. Numbness, flat feet, now braces.” He nodded down at his gleaming shoes. “Get along pretty well, actually. But it’s important to a woman, you know. My Nixon.”

  “Your Nixon,” repeated Len, uncomprehending.

  “Tricky Dick, you know.” Banks laughed. “Joyce is a good sport. Calls it Nixon. But a woman like that, full of energy, she needs something to do. Fulfillment. She was an Olympic-class swimmer, you know, she and her sister.” He looked out over the great city. “It’s ironic, in a way. First wife had Lou Gehrig’s, you know. Died young. I didn’t plan to marry again. But I wanted a family, and Joyce came along. I was still in fine fettle then. We both wanted kids.” He blinked at the view. “No one to leave this to, you know. A nephew who lives on a commune upstate.”

  Len felt that the older man was slicing at his heart. He didn’t want to hear this. Not now. But he could only stare at his drink as Banks continued. “Joyce feels twice as bad, of course. I remember the day old Doc Gable told us. Not his real name. Real name was Clark, so he joked that I ought to call him Gable. He’d tested us both. Everything they knew how to do in those days. Nothing wrong with either of us, he said, keep trying. Joyce cried. We’ve been trying for four years, she said, and after all those tests all you can say is keep trying? Well, I wanted to shoot the doc too. But that’s the way it is sometimes.”

  “Yeah,” said Len. And sometimes it was not that way at all, but heartbreaking too.

  “And of course I knew that with old Nixon we couldn’t keep trying forever,” Banks continued. “So I encouraged her to go into business. Didn’t tell her why, of course. She doesn’t complain. But I can be useful to her there. And it gives her an outlet. Very important for a woman.”

&nb
sp; “Yes. And she’s very talented. Wonderful businesswoman.” Len was uneasy. Why had he been entrusted with Banks’s unhappy little secret? Nancy, he decided. Probably a sort of apology for the keen attention Banks had been lavishing on Nancy. Don’t worry, young man, no danger that I’ll lay your fiancée, I’m a diabetic eunuch. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

  Banks was nodding in agreement. “Yes, Joyce is good. A good sport. A fine mind. You ought to follow up that apartment-house idea, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know she has an investment corporation. She thinks with you in charge, an apartment project would be a sound investment. Bit of a slump now, but it’ll right itself. She’s done it before, for other good managers who are short of capital.”

  “Well, that would be wonderful! If I could just get a start—”

  “I know. Pump-priming. I always tell Joyce, the best place to put our money is in bright young people.”

  “Well, I appreciate that.”

  “But of course, she won’t come to you. Pick a property, work up the statistics. Sell her.” Banks shifted on the seat, found his cane, and shoved himself erect. He looked down at Len with dignity. “When something needs doing, don’t hesitate. Be prepared for opportunity.”

  Len stood up too. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “And make sure that splendid young woman stays busy and happy.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You need a drink too. Let’s go fill ‘em up.”

  Joyce caught them near the bar. “Len, there’s someone to see you in the foyer. O’Connor.”

  “That was fast.” Joyce had told him to have them drop by if they wanted, but he had just left Lund’s counteroffer with them only at noon.

  Joyce dimpled, glamorous in designer chiffon and pearls. Mrs. Gordon Banks this anniversary afternoon, not tailored Joyce Banks, realtor. She said, “It’s all right. Sanchez almost didn’t let them in, but luckily I was powdering my nose and overheard. I told him it was all right. They said they couldn’t stay, so I told them I’d send you out.” She shook her head. “I still can’t imagine how you talked them into it. A murder, and that horrible old woman.”