scenario; he just doesn’t have enough poop to make a plot.
So he calls Mr. Chin Tung Lee on that direct number at White Lotus. The Chairman and CEO picks up after one ring.
“Yes?” he says.
“Mr. Lee, this is Timothy Cone at Haldering.”
“Ah, my young friend. And how is your health today?”
“Fine, thanks,” Cone says, willing to go through the ceremony with this nice old man. “And yours, sir?”
“I am surviving, thank you. Each day is a blessing.”
“Uh-huh. Mr. Lee, the reason I’m calling is that I’d like to get hold of a list of your shareholders and also a copy of your most recent annual report. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course. I’ll have a package prepared for you.”
“If you could leave it at the receptionist’s desk, I could pick it up without bothering you.”
“Oh, no,” Chin Tung Lee says. “I will be delighted to see you. And there is something I wish to ask you.”
“Okay,” Cone says. “I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
He wanders down the corridor to the office of Louis Kiernan, a paralegal in the attorneys’ section of Haldering amp; Co. Cone prefers bracing Kiernan because the full-fledged lawyers give him such a load of gobbledygook that he leaves them with his eyes glazed over.
“Lou,” he says, lounging in the doorway of the cubby, “I need some hotshot legal skinny so gimme a minute, will you?”
Kiernan looks up from his typewriter and peers at Cone over his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “A minute?” he says. “You sure?”
“Maybe two. There’s this rich old geezer whose first wife has died. Now he’s married to a beautiful young knish. He’s also got a son by his first wife who’s older than his second wife-dig? Now my question: If the codger croaks, who inherits?”
“The wife,” Lou says promptly. “At least half, even if the deceased leaves no will. The son would probably be entitled to a third. But listen, Tim, when you get into inheritance law you’re opening a can of worms. Anyone, with good cause, can sue to break a will.”
“But all things being equal, you figure the second wife for at least fifty percent of the estate and the son for, say, thirty percent?”
“Don’t quote me,” Kiernan says cautiously.
“You guys kill me,” Cone says. “When a lawyer’s wife asks, ‘Was it as good for you as it was for me?’ he says, ‘I’d like to get a second opinion on that.’ Thanks, Lou. See you around.”
He rambles down to Exchange Place, sucking on another cigarette and wondering how long it’ll take nonsmokers to have the streets declared off-limits. Then nicotine addicts will have to get their fixes in illicit dens, or maybe by paddling out into the Atlantic Ocean in a rubber dinghy.
Twenty minutes later he’s closeted with Chin Tung Lee. The old man looks chipper, and since he’s puffing a scented cigarette in a long ivory holder, Cone figures it’s okay to light up another coffin nail.
“I know it’s too early to ask if you have made any progress, Mr. Cone.”
“Yeah, it is. I’m just collecting stuff at this stage. That’s why I wanted your shareholder list and annual report.”
“Right here,” Lee says, tapping a fat package on his desk. “I hope you will guard this well. I would not care to have the list fall into the hands of an enemy.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” Cone promises. “I notice White Lotus stock is up another half-point.”
“It continues,” the little man says, nodding. “My son believes it is of no significance, but I do not agree.”
“By the way,” Cone says, as casually as he can manage, “is your son married?”
Chin Tung Lee sets his holder and cigarette down carefully in a brass ashtray made from the base of a five- inch shell. “No, he is not,” he says with a frazzled laugh. “It is a sadness for me. Men my age should have grandchildren. Perhaps great-grandchildren.”
“He’s still a young man,” Cone says. “He may surprise you one of these days.”
“A very pleasant surprise. Family is important to me. Are you married, Mr. Cone?”
“No,” the Wall Street dick says, stirring uncomfortably in the leather club chair. “You said you had something to ask me.”
“Ah, yes,” Lee says, and now his laugh is vigorous again. “Happy news, I am glad to say. Today is my dear wife’s birthday. To celebrate, we are having a cocktail party and buffet dinner in our apartment this evening, and I hope you will be able to join us.”
“Hey,” Cone says, “that sounds great. What time?”
“From five o’clock until the wee hours,” the gaffer says gleefully. “I must admit I am looking forward to it. I enjoy celebrations.”
“Fireworks?” Timothy says, grinning.
“Regretfully, no. The popping of champagne corks will have to do.”
“Your son will be there?”
“Naturally,” Chin says, astonished at the question. “He lives in the apartment. With his own private entrance, I might add. In any event, we are expecting almost a hundred guests, and I trust you will be one of them.”
“Sure will,” Cone says. “You in the book?”
“We are indeed. But to save you from searching through four pages of Lees in the Manhattan directory, I have written out our address and home telephone number. You will find it in the package. Then we may expect you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Cone promises. “Should I bring a birthday present?”
The old man waves a hand in protest. “Of course not. Your presence will be gift enough.”
A lesson to Cone in grace and civility.
He’s down in the lobby carrying the fat package when he realizes what was missing from that conversation. Chin Tung Lee never asked if Cone had spoken to his son. And he had said nothing of the murder of Chen Chang Wang, a good customer of White Lotus products.
Which meant-what? That he considered it of no importance, or that his son had not told him that he and Cone were in Ah Sing’s when Wang was sent to join his ancestors.
The Wall Street dick begins to appreciate what is meant by a “Chinese puzzle.”
He can go back to the office-but that’s not a cheery prospect. Haldering might come nosing around, demanding to know what progress Cone has made on the White Lotus case as well as those other two files, real yawners, he’s supposed to be investigating.
So he decides to hike all the way back to his loft, breathing deeply to get the cigarette smoke out of his alveoli. That lasts for six blocks; then he lights up, cursing himself for his weakness as he inhales deeply and wonders which will rot first: lungs, liver, or kidneys.
He doesn’t bother picking up lunch, figuring he can last till that buffet dinner. Then he’ll gorge and maybe slip something special in his pockets for Cleo. Meanwhile the cat can subsist on refrigerator grub: cheddar and bologna.
In the loft, he strips to T-shirt and baggy Jockey briefs and mixes himself a jelly jar of vodka and water, with plenty of the former, little of the latter, and lots of ice.
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he toasts Cleo, who has come out from under the bathtub and is now lying in a patch of diffused sunshine coming through the dirt-encrusted skylight.
The first thing Cone does is phone Eve Bookerman at Dempster-Torrey, something he should have done a week ago.
“I’m so glad you called, Mr. Cone,” she says in her ballsy voice. “I wanted to thank you personally for the job you did on our sabotage problem. Marvelous!”
“Yeah,” he says, “it turned out okay, and for once the nice guys didn’t finish last. Listen, the reason I’m calling is this: When I was working your case, we rented a car for a month. It’s a Ford Escort and was charged to Dempster-Torrey. By rights the car should have been turned in when the file was closed. But there’s still about two weeks left on the rental, and I wanted to ask if it’s all right with you if I keep the car until the month runs out.”
She laughs. “Mr. Cone, you keep the car as long as you need it, and don’t worry about the billing. It’s the least we can do.”
