senior trust officer, which carried with it the titular promotion to vice president.
(While he was willing to concede that it was true that First Philadelphia dispensed titular promotions instead of salary increases, it was, nevertheless, rather nice to have the bronze name plate reading D. LOGAN HAMMERSMITH, JR. VICE PRESIDENT sitting on his desk.)
Logan Hammersmith was not the only one around First Philadelphia who had noticed that M. C. Wheatley had never married. But there never had been any talk that he was perhaps light on his feet. For one thing, the contents of his personnel file, although they were supposed to be confidential, were well known. One is not prone to jump to the conclusion that someone who has served, with great distinction, was twice wounded and three times decorated, as an Army officer in Vietnam is a fag simply because he has not marched to the marriage altar.
And he didn't have effeminate mannerisms, either. He drank his whiskey straight and sometimes smoked cigars. Hammersmith's final, best guess was that Wheatley was either very shy, and incapable of pursuing women, or, more likely, asexual.
And, of course, for all that anybody reallyknew, Marion Claude Wheatley might be carrying on, discreetly, with a married woman, or for that matter with a belly dancer in Atlantic City. He had a country place, a farm, or what had years before been a farm, acquired by inheritance, in that area of New Jersey known as the Pine Barrens. He spent many of his weekends there, and presumably his summer vacations.
Hammersmith, over the years, had had Marion C. Wheatley out to the house in Bryn Mawr a number of times for dinner. His behavior had been impeccable. He'd brought the right sort of wine as a gift, and he didn't get plastered, or try to grope some shapely knee under the table. But he was not a brilliant, or even mediocre, conversationalist. He was, as Bootsie (Mrs. D. Logan, Jr.) Hammersmith had put it, a crashing bore.
It had been, Hammersmith thought, as he handed the menu back and told the waiter he'd have the Boston scrod, well over a year since Wheatley had been out to the house. He would have to do something about that.
'I think the same for me, please,' Marion C. Wheatley said.
'Do you think the building would fall down if we walked back in reeking of gin?' Hammersmith asked.
Employees of First Philadelphia were expected not to take alcohol at lunch.Officers were under no such unwritten proscription.
'I think a martini would be a splendid idea,' Marion said with a smile.
Hammersmith held up two fingers to the waiter, and then his eyes fell on a familiar face.
'We are in the presence of the mayor,' he said, and discreetly nodded his head in the mayor's direction.
After a moment Marion C. Wheatley looked,
'Is he a member, do you think?'
'I think ex-officio,' Hammersmith said. 'For the obvious reasons. Speaking of the upper crust, Bootsie and I were invited to the Peebles wedding.'
Marion C. Wheatley looked at him curiously.
'Peebles,' Hammersmith repeated. 'As in Tamaqua Mining.'
'Oh,' Wheatley said.
That rang a bell, Hammersmith thought. I thought it would. Tamaqua Mining owned somewhere between ten and twelve percent of the known anthracite reserves of the United States. Anthracite coal was still an important part of petrochemicals, and according to Marion Claude Wheatley it would grow in financial importance. Miss Martha Peebles owned all of the outstanding shares of Tamaqua Mining, and Wheatley would know that.
After a moment Marion Claude Wheatley asked, 'Is that in a trust?'
'No. She manages it herself. With Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester's assistance of course.'
'You know her, then?' Wheatley asked.
Hammersmith was pleased they had found something to talk about. Making conversation with Wheatley was often difficult. Or impossible.
'No. I know the brother. Alexander Peebles, Jr.'
Wheatley's face showed that he didn't understand.
'When the old man died, he, in the classic phrase, cut the boy off without a dime. There is an unpleasant story that the son, how should I phrase this delicately?'
'He's a fairy,' Marion Claude Wheatley said. 'Now that you mention it, I've heard that.'
I don't think he would have used that word if he was queer himself.
'Not from me,' Hammersmith said. 'Anyway, he left everything to the daughter. There was a nasty law suit but he was up against Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, and he lost. Then the sister set up a trust fund for him. With us. Specifically with me. We couldn't have Alexander Peebles, Jr., sleeping in the subway.'
'And he invited you?'
'I don't know. I guess he's been told to show up and behave at the wedding. Brewster Payne's going to give her away, and I suspect he was responsible for the invitation.'
'Who is she marrying?'
'The story gets curiouser and curiouser,' Hammersmith said. 'A cop.'
'A cop?'
'Well, a captain. A fellow named Pekach. He's the head of Highway Patrol.'
'Where did she meet him?'
'The story as I understand it is that her place in Chestnut Hill kept getting burglarized. She complained to the mayor, or Payne complained to the mayor for her, and the mayor sent the Highway Patrol:'
'Carlucci's Commandos,' Wheatley interrupted. 'That's what theLedger calls the Highway Patrol.'
'Right. So, as the story goes, His Honor the Mayor sent the head commando, this Captain Pekach, to calm the lady down, and it was love at first sight.'
'What does this lady look like?'
'Actually, she's rather attractive.'
'Then why didn't you arrange for me to meet her?'
'You don't have a motorcycle and a large pistol. The lady probably wouldn't have been interested in you.'
'I could have gone out and bought them,' Marion Claude Wheatley said. 'In a good cause.'
He smiled at Hammersmith and Hammersmith smiled back. He was pleased that he had decided to take Wheatley to lunch. There was no longer a gnawing suspicion that Wheatley was queer. It could have been awkward at First Philadelphia if that had come out. Everyone knew that he relied heavily on Wheatley's advice, and there would have been talk if something embarrassing had developed.
EIGHT
Detective Matthew M. Payne was the guest of Brewster C. Payne for lunch at the Union League. On the way into Philadelphia from Upper Darby, while pumping gas into the Porsche, he had seen a pay telephone and remembered that his father had left a message on the answering machine to which he had not responded. He'd called him, and been invited to lunch.
He had hung up the phone thinking that virtuewas its own reward. He had nobly been the dutiful son, and only in the middle of the conversation realized that his father would have the solution to what he should do with his Las Vegas winnings.
Brewster Payne arrived first and was asked by the headwaiter how many would be in his party.
'Just my son, Charley.'
'Then you wouldn't mind sitting at a small table?'
'Not at all.'
One of the prerogatives of being a member of the Board of Governors was being able to walk into the dining room anytime before twelve-thirty without a reservation and finding a good four-place table with a RESERVED sign on it was available to you.
Brewster Payne had just been served, without having to ask for it, a Famous Grouse with an equal amount of water and just a little ice, when he saw his son stop at the entrance and look around for him.
