The Bloodied Ivy (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 3)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Here,” Wolfe said quietly. He obviously was preparing for the worst. To him, a meal away from Fritz is the next thing to a sentence on Devil’s Island.

  “Well, I assume you’d like to start thinking about it anyway. Try the room service menu,” I said, taking it from the desk and handing it across. “What’s the program?”

  Wolfe sucked in slightly more than a bushel of air and let it out slowly. “I want to see Mr. Cortland—preferably before dinner.”

  “Any other instructions?”

  “Not at the moment,” he said airily, opening the menu.

  “Okay, I’ll be next door.” I got up to go, and his eyes stayed on the menu, one of his ways of telling me he didn’t particularly care what I did, other than reaching Cortland. In my room, I dialed the professor at home, then at the office; no answer at either place. I dropped onto the bed and closed my eyes; after all, I was newly released from incarceration and needed a period of readjustment to society, to say nothing of a recharging of my batteries. When I opened my eyes, it was a few ticks before five. I got up and opened my overnight bag. Fritz had done a terrific packing job, including everything I could possibly need for a stay of three or four days. I briefly considered calling home to thank him, but scratched the idea; Fritz always frets when Wolfe is away from home and would probably strafe me with questions about how he felt, whether he was getting enough to eat, whether he was dressing warmly enough, and so on. I could do without that just now.

  I washed up and tried Cortland at home again, this time with success. “I’m over at the Prescott Inn,” I announced. “So is Wolfe.”

  “Oh? You’ve been released?” He sounded surprised.

  “Yes. What happened to that damn key that you were supposed to leave in the flowerpot?”

  “Oh, Mr. Goodwin, I’m so chagrined,” he said. “In my hurry to leave for Kingston—I’m afraid I was running late as usual—I simply forgot. I don’t know what to say—”

  “Say you’ll never do it again, cross your heart. Their dungeon is horrible, but somehow I survived it all. That’s all in the past, though. Mr. Wolfe would like to see you here. I strongly suggest that you come as fast as you can.”

  Cortland said he’d make it fifteen minutes, which meant that if Wolfe didn’t prolong the meeting, he could still have his dinner at the usual time—or even earlier, if he was of a mind. I mention this because his stomach in large measure—no pun intended—dictates his actions. I gave myself nine-to-two odds that his conversation with Cortland would take no more than an hour and probably less. I ran a comb through my hair and dialed Wolfe’s suite. He answered on the third ring. “Yes?” His tone was the same one I get when I interrupt him during one of his sessions in the plant rooms.

  “Mr. Cortland will be over in less than ten minutes now, or so he promises. Do you want me to order dinner before he gets here and have it brought up at, say, seven?”

  There was a five-second pause, followed by a deep breath, intended to represent suffering. “Yes. I’ll have the endive salad, the chicken and dumplings, the strawberries Romanoff, and coffee.” From his tone, it was obvious he wasn’t about to bet his house in Cairo on the abilities of the folks manning the kitchen. “Also, Archie, have more beer brought up now, and something for you and Mr. Cortland as well.”

  Having been thus directed, I called downstairs and gave them two identical dinner orders—I liked the sound of Wolfe’s choices. I also asked them to send up more beer and a bottle of their highest-priced Scotch, along with soda. I didn’t know anything for sure about Cortland’s preference, but he seemed like a Scotch drinker. If I happened to be wrong, there was always room service; we could easily become their best customers.

  After I got off the phone, I looked in the mirror, straightened my tie, and went down the hall to Wolfe’s door, knocking once and pronouncing my name. He grunted and I let myself in with the key. He was right where I’d left him in the big chair, except now he had a new book, A History of Venice, by John Julius Norwich.

  “Beer’s on the way,” I told him. “And so, as you know, is Cortland. Are you ready for him?” My answer was a glare, which lasted all of three seconds before he returned to his book. The sawed-off waiter with the mustache, the smile, and the libations beat the professor to our room, only by a minute or so. Wolfe had his beer and I was unscrewing the cap on the Scotch when the knock came. I went to the door and cracked it, bracing it with one foot, which turned out to be unnecessary. The man in the hall appeared about as likely as Woody Allen to bull his way into a room.

  “Enter,” I told Cortland, who blinked, gave a whispered hello, and cautiously stepped in, squaring his shoulders. He was wearing a nicely cut light gray suit, a great improvement over those ridiculous rainbow sportcoats. “Please sit down, Mr. Cortland,” Wolfe rumbled, gesturing toward the upholstered chair that I’d positioned facing him. “Will you have something to drink?”

  “Scotch, please—with soda if you’ve got it.” Score one for my character analysis. I stirred Scotch-and-sodas for Cortland and myself while Wolfe poured the first of three bottles of Remmers that were lined up like soldiers at parade rest on the table. I handed our guest his drink, pulled up a straight-backed chair for myself, and flipped my notebook open.

  “Sir,” Wolfe said after taking a healthy swallow of beer, “as I believe you know, the Prescott police now are aware you have engaged me to investigate Mr. Markham’s death. Under the circumstances, Mr. Goodwin had very little alternative but to divulge our role to them. How do you feel about this?”

  Cortland sipped Scotch and set his glass down gingerly. “It was going to come out eventually,” he said, shrugging.

  “It was indeed. Now that I’m here,” Wolfe said, allowing himself an expression that showed his near-misery, “I would like to talk to several people, preferably in a group. And it would be helpful if you could orchestrate this.”

  Cortland fidgeted. As I watched him, I realized he didn’t have any idea how unusual it was for Wolfe to be unleashed on the world. You’d better not blow this opportunity, buddy, I thought, either for your sake or for our almighty and most honorable bank balance.

  “Well, I suppose I can at least ask,” the professor said, bobbing his head and clearing his throat. “I think I know who you want to engage in conversation, and when they see Mr. Goodwin, they’ll realize I wasn’t being totally forthright with them the first time he paid a visit, You now, the false name and all.” He stared glumly into his Scotch, no doubt wondering how the coming events would affect his academic reputation.

  “As you said yourself, it was going to come out anyway.”

  “True. You’ll want to see…”

  “Messrs. Schmidt, Greenbaum, and Potter, and the two women, Elena Moreau and Gretchen Frazier,” Wolfe said, turning a hand over.

  “When would you want them here?”

  “After dinner would be ideal, at nine o’clock. If any are unable to be present, we could see them individually tomorrow, but only in the morning. Mr. Goodwin and I will be leaving before midday. I can afford no more time away from home.”

  “And if none want to come?”

  “You might suggest that if I leave here without seeing them, my recourse will be to share my suspicions with journalists in New York who will be interested in talking to me.”

  “You’re asking a lot on short notice,” Cortland protested with a squeak.

  “Mr. Cortland, it is a rare occurrence—and a great inconvenience—for me to leave my home for any reason, and when I do, I ask the indulgence of others. After all, I have in effect indulged you by coming here. You are welcome to use this telephone to make the requisite calls.” Wolfe was laying it on thick, which didn’t bother me at all. Besides, his little speech had told me when we’d be checking out of Prescott, which was more than I had known before.

  “Thank you, but I’ll use the instrument at home,” Cortland said primly. “What should I say?”

  Wolfe scowled. “Try the truth. Tell them
you think Mr. Markham was murdered and that you have engaged me to ferret out the murderer. Tell them also that I’ve asked to talk to a number of people who knew Mr. Markham. And suggest that anyone who does not come to see me will be suspect. You might choose to add as an incentive that if they do not come to this room, Mr. Goodwin will pay calls on the recalcitrants. One more thing: Say that if transportation is a problem, Mr. Goodwin will drive any one of them to and from here.” I’ve always been impressed at how free Wolfe is with my time and duties.

  Cortland still had a troubled look as he drained his drink. “I’m honestly not sure if I can get them—particularly Potter and Schmidt.”

  “But you can try,” Wolfe insisted coolly. “Mr. Goodwin and will await your report. One more question, sir: Why did you neglect to mention in your conversations with us that Mr. Markham suffered from dizzy spells?”

  The professor wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “What dizzy spells? Hale never had anything like that. The man was a rock.

  “Not according to Mrs. Moreau.”

  “Mr. Wolfe, I was Hale’s closet friend—his confidant. If he had had attacks of dizziness, I most certainly would have been cognizant of it,” Cortland said in an offended tone. “I don’t know what Elena thinks she’s up to, but this is manifestly nonsense!”

  “Very well,” Wolfe said, expressionless. “Mr. Goodwin will see you to the door.”

  Cortland’s expression alternated between anger and confusion as he rose to leave. He briefly muttered about Elena’s motives, then switched to grumbling about how difficult he thought his calling assignment was, but he might as well have had a tree as his listener. Wolfe had opened his book, a clear signal the audience was over. I escorted Cortland to the hall, arming him with a pep talk about how much faith both of us had in him. Closing the door, I turned to Wolfe.

  “I’ve got to agree with our client,” I said. “I’m not sure he’ll be able to get many of them.”

  He looked up peevishly. “The moment has arrived for Mr. Cortland to do a little work. What time is it?”

  “Six-ten. Why?”

  Wolfe’s frown deepened, but he said nothing, returning to his book. I knew he was hungry and had hoped it was nearer dinnertime. Even though he was in alien territory, miles from the kitchen, larder, and talents of Fritz Brenner, he and his stomach were primed for dinner. For that matter, so was I.

  TWELVE

  AS IT TURNED OUT, THE dinner merited our anticipation. Wolfe pronounced the chicken and dumplings “more than adequate,” and I had to agree, scoring them at least a high B on my own scale, which is saying something, given my years dining on the creations of Fritz Brenner. Wolfe was anchored in his chair for the meal, which got wheeled in on a tablecloth-covered cart at precisely seven o’clock by none other than our mustachioed and minuscule dandy of a waiter, whom I rewarded with a finif, if only to see just how wide that grin could stretch. I pulled one of the straight-backed chairs up to the cart and mainly chewed and listened while Wolfe expounded on why terms of members of the House of Representatives should be extended from two years to four. He was surprisingly amiable, given that I’d uprooted him from home and routine and that he would soon be spending the night in a bed designed for mortals of standard proportions. His mood dived into the basement fast, though, when a call came from Cortland that indicated he would now have to do something to earn his fee.

  I listened on the bedroom extension while the professor reported to Wolfe that, much to his astonishment, he had connected with all five subjects, and that three of them—Schmidt, Greenbaum, and Elena Moreau—had agreed to see Wolfe that night at nine. Potter and Gretchen Frazier claimed previous engagements, although the president, after much grumbling, said he would come at nine-thirty the next morning, while Gretchen was set for eleven.

  “I should tell you that they weren’t exactly elated, though.” Cortland sounded none too pleased himself. “Particularly Schmidt and Greenbaum. The only way I sold Orville was to tell him that Ted and Elena already had agreed to see you. And then there was Potter: He took umbrage at first and voiced the opinion that the entire notion of murder was ridiculous. When I informed him several of the faculty had already agreed to come to your room, he retreated and said he would talk to you in his office tomorrow. My response was that you were not prepared to leave the Inn under any circumstances, and he snorted and said okay, he’d humor you. I think his primary concern is about bad publicity for the school.”

  “Undoubtedly. How did the women react?”

  “Elena didn’t seem terribly surprised for some reason. At least she didn’t fight the idea, although she complained that she was in the middle of grading papers. As far as the Frazier girl, she sounded shocked—and a little frightened, too, I’d have to say.”

  “Very well,” Wolfe said. “You probably will hear from Mr. Goodwin sometime tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want me to be there when you talk to the others?”

  “Not necessary,” Wolfe said curtly, which caused a relieved sigh on the other end.

  “You have to admit he did pretty well,” I said as I walked back to where Wolfe was polishing off the last of the strawberries Romanoff. “Adequate” was all I got out of him, though, before he told me to call for more beer and other liquid reinforcements for our next guests. I ordered four bottles of Remmers this time, plus a bottle each of bourbon and gin and a good white wine, plus a variety of mixes, just to be on the safe side. If the faculty wanted anything more exotic, they’d have to find it elsewhere.

  Our beaming waiter, smelling still another tip, wheeled in a cart loaded with bottles, ice, and glasses at eight-forty-three, giving me time to set up a makeshift bar on the buffet in one corner of the room. Wolfe had returned to his book after pouring one of the two bottles of beer I had set on the end table next to him. I moved the sofa and one upholstered chair into position facing him—he doesn’t like to crane his neck—and positioned a chair for myself off to the left where I could keep an eye on all their faces.

  When a knock came at nine-oh-six, I opened the door a crack on three less-than-happy faces. “Come in, please,” I said, trying to make it sound hospitable.

  “Mr. Goodwin, isn’t it? Or should I say Goodman?” The smile on Schmidt’s round face didn’t match his testy tone. The lanky Greenbaum stuck out a long jaw and brushed by me, while Elena Moreau, looking every bit as chic as she had the day before, fixed me with narrowed eyes. She gave herself away, though, when the right corner of her mouth turned up, and I responded with a wink as she moved into the room.

  “Well, we’re here, but I’m damned if I know why we should be,” Schmidt declared to Wolfe as if he were beginning to lecture a hall full of freshman. “If what Walter told us on the phone is true—”

  “Mr. Schmidt, if you please,” Wolfe interrupted, getting as comfortable as his chair allowed, “hear me out and perhaps in our discussions the truth will present itself. Mrs. Moreau. Mr. Greenbaum.” He dipped his head a fraction of an inch to each of them. “Please be seated. I prefer to have others at eye level. Mr. Goodwin will be happy to serve refreshments. As you can see, I’m having beer.”

  “We know him as Arnold Goodman,” Greenbaum brayed, easing into a spot on the sofa next to Elena, while Schmidt dropped into the armchair. “And nothing for me—I don’t intend to stay long. I don’t think any of us do.” Schmidt, who had obviously nominated himself as spokesman for the trio, wasn’t about to get upstaged and turned to Greenbaum, who immediately shut up.

  “Mr. Wolfe,” Schmidt said, planting his elbows on the chair arms, “we came tonight because a colleague asked us to. We met down in the lobby and decided we would hear you out, despite your high-handed tactic of summoning us as if we were supplicants being called before a feudal lord. I will have bourbon on the rocks. Elena?”

  “White wine, please,” she said, glancing my way with the beginnings of a real smile.

  “Better than a feudal lord likely would have offered supplicants,” Wolfe obse
rved as I set the drinks on end tables next to Schmidt and Elena. Greenbaum folded his arms over his chest and stuck out that chin again. It was a tempting target.

  “I appreciate the time you have taken, and I promise not to prolong the evening unnecessarily,” Wolfe said without a trace of sarcasm. “As Mr. Cortland told each of you on the telephone, Mr. Goodwin and I are here to determine whether your former colleague, Hale Markham, fell to his death accidentally or was pushed.”

  “Or killed himself?” Elena Moreau queried, raising her beautifully shaped eyebrows. “As ludicrous as it sounds, that possibility has been suggested.” That zinger was meant for me.

  “A possibility as well,” Wolfe conceded.

  “I say nonsense—to both murder and suicide!” Schmidt barked, slapping a palm on his knee. “Nobody had any reason to kill Hale, and he was far too enamored of himself to commit suicide.”

  “Really, Orville, aren’t we getting a bit nasty?” Elena said, turning toward him with anger in her voice and in her large, dark eyes.

  “Well, it’s true, Elena. I know you were friends—good friends—and I respect that, whatever I may have thought of Hale’s personality. But even you would have to agree that the man had an ego the size of the Himalayas.”

  She continued glaring at him and he finally looked away, his chubby cheeks an even rosier shade than usual. “Mr. Wolfe,” she said, “I’d be interested—I think we all would—in hearing precisely why you believe Hale was murdered.”

  “I haven’t said I believe he was murdered, madam. I said I am here to determine whether he was.”

  “Hah! It sounds to me like you’re fishing for business,” Greenbaum snapped, aiming his chin at Wolfe again.

  “I assure you, sir, that I do not have to fish for business, as you put it. The fish come to me—they always have. Am I correct in stating that none of you thinks there is the slightest possibility Mr. Markham’s death was not accidental?” He fixed his eyes on each of the three in turn, ending with Elena.