Free Sacrificial Ground by Thomas H. Cook Page B

“Badge number one one four seven, if you want to take it down.”
    The woman sat back stiffly. “That won’t be necessary.” She paused a moment, her eyes checking him out once again. “May I know what this is about?”
    â€œNo,” Frank said, “I think that Mr. Cummings would want that to remain confidential.”
    â€œVery well,” the woman said. “Please be seated. I’ll see what I can do for you.” She stood up quickly, then walked back into one of the suites of offices at the rear.
    Frank turned slowly and strolled around the room. The paintings drew his attention and he walked from one to another, carefully looking at each in turn. They were all of places in what Frank took to be Paris, street scenes of cafés and expansive boulevards, huge arches and sweeping parks. The colors were bright, even garish, and he didn’t like them very much. There was too much peace and gaiety pushing out the facts of life as he saw them, and for a moment he tried to imagine why anyone would hang only such pictures. He wondered if Cummings himself had selected them, and if so, why? To relieve the gray monotony of corporate law, perhaps, or to present a view of life which seemed possible for him once he’d won enough cases, garnered enough fees and could then sit back and sip a glass of wine in a street cafe exactly as thousands of far less wealthy and distinguished people did quite absently and without a thought every single day.
    He was still brooding over the general tone of the paintings when the receptionist returned.
    â€œMr. Clemons,” she said, “Mr. Cummings will see you now.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œJust follow me, please,” the woman said. Then she turned briskly and led Frank down a long, very wide corridor which finally spread out into yet another large reception area. There was another woman behind another wooden desk. She was young and very elegantly dressed, and she flashed Frank a pleasant smile which he instantly distrusted.
    â€œI’m Mr. Cummings’ executive secretary,” she said. She glanced coolly at the other woman. “That’ll be all, Amy.”
    Her eyes shifted back to Frank. “I understand you’re with the police.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd this is some sort of official visit?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre you interested in engaging the firm in some way?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAre you seeking legal counsel? For yourself, I mean?”
    â€œNo,” Frank said.
    The woman jotted down a note, and Frank wondered just how many layers of the servant class he was going to have to penetrate before he reached Arthur Cummings.
    â€œI don’t have all day,” he said finally.
    The woman looked up. She looked as if he had spit in her face. “What’s that?”
    â€œI want to see Arthur Cummings,” Frank said bluntly. “And I don’t have all day.”
    â€œWell, Mr. Cummings usually sees people only by appointment.”
    â€œThis is a murder investigation,” Frank said.
    The woman’s eyes widened.
    â€œNow why don’t you press that little button on your phone there, or whatever it is you press, and tell Mr. Cummings that I’m coming in.”
    The buzzer was still sounding in Cummings’ office as Frank came through the double mahogany doors.
    Arthur Cummings looked as if his fortress had been breached by a barbarian army. He stood up slowly, glaring into Frank’s eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that looked as if it had never been worn for more than forty minutes. He was tall, slender, with a head of blindingly white hair.
    Frank displayed his badge. “I don’t mean to be difficult, Mr. Cummings,” he said quietly, “but I have a lot to do, and seeing you is first on my list.”
    A slight smile swept over Cummings’ face. “I see,” he said. “Well, why