Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

A big fucking conspiracy.

Reardon would have preferred running down a burglar.

He was waiting in the reception room when Phillipa Lewis walked in. An attractive woman in her early forties, he guessed. Wearing a gray topcoat over a trim gray business suit. He introduced himself, told her why he was there, and she immediately looked at her watch. Politely, but not overly enthusiastically, she invited him into her office. Sitting behind her desk — blonde hair pulled tightly back, red earrings, blue eyes — she listened as he explained that he was working a homicide possibly related to the murder of Peter Dodge.

“Even now,” she said, “it’s hard to get used to the word murder. Well, it was a shock to all of us here. As I’m sure you realize.” Vassar out of Rosemary Hall, he guessed. “He seemed so extraordinarily up that day,” she said in the same somewhat nasal voice, talking through her pretty little uptilted nose. “He’d been away for the weekend, skiing in Vermont — Stratton, I believe. Peter was an avid skier. He came back Monday morning and could talk about nothing but how excellent conditions had been. Fresh powder, sunshine... do you ski, Mr. Reardon?”

“No, I don’t.”

“A lovely sport,” she said.

“Who made the lunch reservation for him that day, would you know?”

“Well, his secretary. I would imagine.”

“At the Luna Mare.”

“Yes. He loved Italian food.”

“What time did he get back here?”

“At about two. And rushed right out again.”

“Oh? Where’d he go?”

Phillipa hesitated. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” she said.

“Why not?”

“It was a personal matter.”

“A woman?”

“No, no,” she said, and smiled.

“Then what? The man was murdered that night, Miss Lewis. Anything you can tell me...”

“Well, I’ve already told Detective Weissman all he wanted to know.”

“Yes, but at the time Detective Weissman didn’t have all the facts.”

“What facts?” she said.

“One,” Reardon said, and began ticking them off on the fingers of his left hand. “Mr. Dodge had lunch that day at a restaurant named Luna Mare. It’s my understanding that your firm wrote the contract for the purchase of that restaurant.”

“Yes, that’s true. Peter did.”

“All right, two. He was killed sometime between six and six-thirty that night, possibly by three men who were driving a brown Mercedes-Benz. Three, approximately an hour later, the owner of the Luna Mare was killed, by two men who got out of a brown Mercedes-Benz. I’m looking for a connection, Miss Lewis. Peter Dodge was D’Annunzio’s lawyer, but what’s the connection beyond that?”

“Where he went that afternoon has nothing to do with his murder.”

“How do you know that?”

“Or with this man who owns the Luna Mare.”

“Let me judge, okay?”

“I mean, this simply isn’t the connection you’re looking for.”

“Where did he go. Miss Lewis. Would you please tell me?”

Phillipa sighed. “It’s just... he confided this to me, and I’m not sure I should...”

“What’d he confide?”

It seemed a long time before Phillipa answered. Reardon waited.

“That he’d bought some silver contracts.”

“Some what?” Reardon said.

“Silver contracts. That’s where he went. To buy silver contracts.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“He bought silver contracts, Mr. Reardon. Heavily and long.”

“I still don’t...”

“It means he hoped to make a large profit.”

“And this is what he confided to you?”

“Yes. That he’d bought the contracts.”

“These silver contracts.”

“Yes.” She paused and said, “He urged me to follow suit.”

“He was giving you some sort of tip, is that it?”

“Well, yes, if you want to put it that way.”

“To buy silver contracts.”

“Yes. Heavily and long.”

“I guess I know what heavily means...”

“Well, yes, heavily.”

“But what does long mean?”

“Well, that would take some time to explain,” Phillipa said, and looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, but I’m already late for an appointment uptown. One buys futures, you see. Silver is a commodity, like soybeans, hog bellies, grain... really, I am sorry, but I do have to leave.”

“One more question.” Reardon said. “Where did he buy these contracts?”

“At a firm called Rothstein-Phelps,” Phillipa said.

A blonde, blue-eyed receptionist sat behind the switchboard at Rothstein-Phelps. Reardon wondered why every woman in the world was blonde and blue-eyed when your blonde, blue-eyed wife was divorcing you. Well, Sandy isn’t, he thought. Eyes the color of loam, hair a light shade of brown. But Sandy’s got a boyfriend she lets into her bed.

“Rothstein-Phelps, good afternoon,” the receptionist said. “One moment. please.” She pushed a button, looked up at Reardon. “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

“Detective Reardon, Fifth P.D.U.,” he said, flashing his shield. “I’d like to see either Mr. Rothstein or Mr. Phelps, please.”

“Mr. Rothstein is out just now,” the receptionist said. “Just a moment, sir. I’ll see if Mr. Phelps is available.” She pushed another button. “Alice,” she said, “there’s a detective here to see Mr. Phelps.” She listened and then said, “He didn’t say.” She listened again. “Okay,” she said and turned to Reardon. “It’s just down the hall, sir,” she said. “Through the door there.”

Reardon opened the door and found himself in a beige-colored corridor, muted lighting overhead. He walked to a desk at the end of the hall, and showed his shield again to an elderly woman.

“Detective Reardon,” he said. “For Mr. Phelps.”

“Yes, sir, won’t you go in, please?”

He went to the door she’d indicated, knocked, and then opened it. A stout little man sat behind a desk, a telephone to his ear. Dark suit, tie pulled down, top button of his white shin open.

“Four cents a pound.” he said, and gestured to a chair. “Eighty-eight dollars a ton,” he said, and listened. “All right, get back to me.” He put the phone down, stood, and extended his hand to Reardon. “Sorry,” he said. Reardon took his hand. The palm was damp. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reardon? Sit down, please.”

Reardon sat. He took out his notebook.

“A man named Peter Dodge was killed last Monday night,” he said. “Would you know him?”

“Peter Dodge? No.”

“His partner — a woman named Phillipa Lewis — tells me he had some business dealings with your firm on the afternoon of the murder.”

Phelps shook his head. “I don’t recognize his name as one of our customers.”

“He bought silver,” Reardon said.

“Oh? Did he?”

Eyes instantly alert.

“According to Miss Lewis. Silver contracts.” He looked at his notebook. “Heavily and long.”

“That’s entirely possible,” Phelps said, and instantly reached for his telephone. He pressed a button in the base, said, “Alice, would you please check...?” He looked up at Reardon. “When did you say this was?”

“Last Monday. The fifteenth.”

“... the list of calls for Monday,” Phelps said into the phone. “The fifteenth. And buzz Jenny for Mr. Rothstein’s appointment calendar. See what he had scheduled for that date, would you? Thanks.” he said, and hung up.

“You didn’t sell those contracts personally, is that it?” Reardon asked.

“No, I didn’t. But my partner may have. That’s what I’m checking now.”

“Would that have been unusual, Mr. Phelps? Buying long in silver?”