“One. East Sixties.”
“Insert it.”
“She may spot it. Does that matter?”
“No. If she’s open to menace, the more she’s stirred the better. Your notebook. Questions for Mr. Oster and Mr. Whipple. We don’t want an army here. Only those who—”
“I’ll get the ad in first.” I got the phone and dialed.
Chapter 8
It was a lousy weekend. Nothing went right. Nothing went exactly wrong either, but you can say that if you just go to bed and don’t get up.
My Saturday morning date with Oster and Whipple was canceled because Oster was called to Washington for a parley at the Department of Justice. He might be back Sunday night. Saul Panzer is the best free-lance operative who ever stopped a closing door with his foot, but even Saul was stymied when he learned that the man who had been on duty that Monday evening at the garage where the Kenneth Brookes kept their two Herons was off somewhere for the weekend, nobody knew where. At four o’clock Saturday afternoon I was invited to the DA’s office to discuss some selected items in the report I had delivered to Cramer, and was kept so long by an assistant district attorney named Mandel, who would enjoy looking at me through bars with him on the outside, that I was two hours late for a dancing date with friends at the Flamingo. Lon Cohen phoned once Saturday and twice Sunday. Some brainy journalist, maybe Lon himself, having seen the ad, had recalled the fact that Susan Brooke’s married brother lived in the East Sixties, and of course 128th Street was obvious, and Lon wanted to know what gave. I stalled him off Saturday, but he called twice Sunday to ask if the hackie had shown. He hadn’t. Not a peep.
A lousy weekend.
I finally got to Oster early Monday afternoon, at the office of the ROCC, a whole floor of a building on 39th Street near Lexington Avenue. It wasn’t lavish, but neither was it seedy. I was a little surprised to see that the switchboard girl, who doubled in reception, was my color, even a little lighter — a middle-aged female, hair showing some gray, with a chin and a half and a long thin nose, which didn’t fit. I learned later that of the total office staff of thirty-four, five were white, and of the five whites, four were volunteers, what Dolly Brooke would call do-gooders.
Oster’s room was small, one window, but after a few words he took me down the hall to the corner room of the executive director, Thomas Henchy, and it was quite a chamber, with a few dozen photographs on the walls where the cabinets and shelves left room. I had seen Henchy on television a couple of times, and so have you probably — broad shoulders, cheeks a little pudgy but not flabby, short neck. Color, strong coffee with one teaspoon of cream. He got up to shake hands, and I took a little care with the grip. Men with short necks are apt to be knuckle-crushers.
When I left, more than an hour later, the program for the evening was set, with no hard feelings. I had explained that when Wolfe had said “the entire staff” he hadn’t meant it literally. He wanted to see only those, who, because of their contacts or relations with Susan or Dunbar, or both, might possibly be able to supply useful information; and the selection would be up to them, Oster and Henchy, in discussion with me. That was satisfactory, and we proceeded to discuss. I had a list in my pocket when I left, and when I got back to the office I typed it for Wolfe:
Thomas Henchy, around 50, executive director. He was courteous but not cordial. He knows it’s doing ROCC a lot of harm and he hates it. Possibly thinks Whipple killed her.
Harold R. Oster, Counsel. He had evidently told Henchy that a conference at our office was his idea, and I didn’t spoil it.
Adam Ewing, around 40, colored, in charge of public relations, worked closely with Whipple. I met him. Smart and very earnest. Thinks he knows everything, and possibly does. Chips on both shoulders. Light caramel.
Cass Faison, 45, colored, in charge of fund-raising. Susan Brooke worked under him. I met him. They don’t come any blacker. Turns his grin on and off. I wouldn’t be surprised if he liked Susan and doesn’t like Dunbar. No innuendo intended.
Miss Rae Kallman, about Susan’s age, white. She helped Susan arrange meetings and parties. Susan recruited her and paid her personally, but she is staying on for a while. Didn’t meet her. I got the impression that she didn’t approve of Susan’s cottoning to Dunbar. I didn’t go into points like that since I wasn’t supposed to, but I got the impression.
Miss Beth Tiger, colored, 21, stenographer. Only Henchy has a secretary, they’re short-handed, but she took all of Dunbar’s dictation. Another impression, from a comment by Henchy: she would have been willing to take more than dictation from Dunbar. Didn’t meet her.
Miss Maud Jordan, white, 50 or more, switchboard and receptionist. She is included chiefly because she took the phone call from Susan that afternoon and put the message on Dunbar’s desk that Susan couldn’t get to the apartment until nine o’clock. She’s a volunteer, hipped on civil rights, another do-gooder, evidently with a private pile since she takes no pay and Henchy mentioned that she gave $500 to the fund for Medgar Evers’s children. I saw her entering and leaving. An old maid, spinster to you, who had to be hipped on something and happened to stumble on civil rights or maybe wrongs. My impression, based on my infallible understanding of women under 90.
All of them knew about the apartment. Henchy, Ewing, Faison, and Kallman knew where it was. Oster says he didn’t. Jordan knew the phone number. Tiger, I don’t know.
When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock he picked it up, read it twice, scowled at it for two minutes, put it in a drawer, and picked up his current book. Not Rowse on Shakespeare; The Minister and the Choir Singer, by a lawyer named Kunstler. I had read it and recommended it. At dinner we discussed it and agreed that the New York Police Department and district attorney’s office had never made such an awful mess of a case and never would.
The evening didn’t start off any too well. When four or more are coming for an after-dinner session I equip a portable bar in the kitchen and wheel it into the office, and it was there, by the bookshelves to the left of the safe, when the first one arrived; but twenty minutes later, when they had all come and been seated, and Wolfe entered, I had made no sales. That was remarkable. Out of eight people, at nine o’clock in the evening, you would expect at least two or three to be thirsty enough or bushed enough to want a drink, but they all said no. It couldn’t have been because of my manners, offering to serve people of an inferior race. First, two of them were white, and second, when I consider myself superior to anyone, as I frequently do, I need a better reason than his skin.
The seating was segregated, not by color but by sex. Wolfe had told me to put Whipple, the client, in the red leather chair, and since he had arrived before Oster there had been no clash. In the front row of yellow chairs Oster was at the far end from me, then Henchy, Ewing, public relations, and Faison, fund-raising. In the back row were Rae Kallman, Maud Jordan, and Beth Tiger. It was my first sight of the Misses Kallman and Tiger. Kallman, who had more lipstick than necessary on her full lips, would probably be plump in a few years, but now she was just nice and curvy. Tiger was one of those specimens who cannot be properly introduced by details. I’ll mention that her skin was about the color of an old solid-gold bowl Wolfe has in his room which he won’t allow Fritz to clean, that if she had been Cleopatra instead of what’s-her-name I wouldn’t have missed that movie, and that I had a problem with my eyes all evening, since with a group there I am supposed to watch expressions and movements. It was especially difficult because Miss Tiger, nearest me in the back row, was at an angle to my right. My mistake.