You blew it, I thought. She knows you’re on to her. Get back to business.
She picked up the handpiece of a white phone, dialed a couple of numbers, then, “Jane, bring me the Wilensky file, please… yes, everything.” She hung up.
“So, Sergeant Bannon, what exactly are you looking for?”
I decided to play it straight up.
“As you know, the state is going to get the estate if we can’t find a family member with a legitimate claim. Mrs. Wilensky had almost a hundred gra… a hundred thousand dollars in her savings account, most of which came from a, uh, stipend of some kind she got every month.”
Jane, a mousy young woman with dirty-blond hair, came in with a large accordion folder, put it on the corner of her desk, and left without a word.
“Five hundred dollars,” she said with a nod.
“I was hoping we can get a lead off the cashier’s checks. You do keep a record of them, don’t you?”
“No, bank checks go back to the issuing bank when they’re cashed. We do make photocopies, although I doubt it will be much help to you.”
“How come?”
“They were always cashier’s checks. No names, just the issuing bank.”
My disappointment was palpable.
“Can we look them over anyway?” I asked.
“All of them?”
“I’m sorry, I know you must be awfully busy, but sometimes the smallest thing…” I shrugged and let the sentence die.
“All the way back to the beginning?”
I nodded. “Nineteen twenty-four, I think.” I leaned down to get my briefcase and my jacket flopped open. As I sat up, I saw her eyes fixed on the Luger under my arm.
“Will it make you more comfortable if I put this in my pocket?”
“I’m sorry. I’m well accustomed to firearms, I’m a member of the Bel Air Skeet Club. I’ve just never seen a hidden weapon except in gangster movies.”
“It’s concealed.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s called a concealed weapon, not a hidden weapon.”
“Oh. Well, don’t put it in your pocket on my account.”
I opened the briefcase and showed her the contents. “These were in a lockbox at her house. Statements going back to the mid twenties. There was some other stuff, papers on the car and house, bill of sale for Frank Wilensky’s business. But no will and no birth certificate. Seems strange for someone that, uh…”
“Meticulous?”
“Yeah, meticulous.”
“So, you want to see the copies of the original checks and deposit slips.”
“Please.”
For the next hour or so, we went through checks and deposit slips and I made notes. When we were through, I had a list of all the cashier’s checks going back to the original $4,000 cash deposit. At one point my Parker pen ran out of ink and she loaned me a gold fountain pen with no trade name on it. I felt guilty just leaving my fingerprints on it.
“How about a break?” she said, finally. “Coffee?”
“Sounds great.”
She went to the wall behind her desk and slid back a panel. There was a small stove and refrigerator behind it. A French coffeemaker was sitting over a low flame. She poured coffee into two bone china cups and put them on matching saucers.
“How do you take it?”
“Two sugars, a splash of milk.”
She dropped a couple of cubes of sugar into one cup and got a bottle of real cream out of the refrigerator.
“Will cream be alright? I’ve never been much for milk.”
“I’ll just take the cream, forget the coffee.”
She laughed then, a genuine laugh that came from somewhere around her ankles.
“This is quite a setup,” I said. “Do all VPs have offices this cushy?”
She turned the framed photo around. It was a shot of Millicent and Sutherland in tennis togs. He had his arm around her waist.
“Only if you play tennis with the boss,” she said.
“Oh,” is all I could think to say.
“Of course, it helps if the boss is your father.”
I almost swallowed my tongue.
“It’s been fun watching your deductive brain at work,” she said with a smile, and leaned back in her chair. “Are you usually this impulsive drawing conclusions?”
I could feel my face turning color.
“I hope not,” I said. “If I am, there are a lot of innocent men dancing to the piper.”
She cocked her head slightly.
“Dancing to the piper,” I repeated, “means doing time. Prison. Look, I’m sorry I misjudged things. I’ve never seen a woman executive with an office this impressive. Or one dressed like you are.”
“Well, there aren’t too many of us around-yet. But that’ll change, so you may as well get accustomed to it.”
“Suits me fine,” I said. I nodded toward the radio. “What kind of music do you like, classical?”
“I like classical.”
“Tchaikovsky?”
She smiled, the kind of smile that made me feel I wasn’t in on the joke.
“Is that the way I strike you? Tchaikovsky?”
“Well, who then?”
“Actually I prefer Tommy Dorsey although I think Miller’s easier to dance to. And Duke Ellington when I’m blue.”
This time I didn’t even try to disguise my surprise? “Dorsey, huh? You must be a Sinatra fan.”
“Buddy Rich.”
“You’re a drum freak, then?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Always have been.”
“Then you know Krupa’s the man. He makes Rich sound like he’s using chicken bones for drumsticks.”
She scowled. “Krupa’s all technique. Buddy has the speed and punch, and he’s far more inventive.”
“I never argue with a woman, but you’re wrong.”
“I never argue with a policeman, but you’re wrong.”
I was dying for a cigarette but there wasn’t an ashtray in sight.
“Look, I’m about to get the heebie-jeebies for a smoke. Mind if I step outside for a couple of minutes?”
She opened a drawer and produced a china bowl that looked like it was on loan from a museum.
“You really want me to put ashes in this?” I asked, taking out the makings.
“It’s an ashtray,” she said. “Here, try one of mine.”
They were Sherman Select, an inch longer than regular cigarettes and half as thick, with a gold filter on the end. The paper was light blue. Three bucks a carton if they cost a penny. The gold case they were in cost more than Verna Wilensky’s house.
She got up, walked around the desk, produced a gold Dunhill lighter, and lit my cigarette. The tobacco was mild and sweet, not harsh like the Prince Albert pipe tobacco I used.
“Thanks.”
I took a couple of good drags and let the smoke hang around in my lungs before I blew it out.
“It’ll take about three of these to get one good smoke,” I said.
