The Bloodied Ivy (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 3)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Hardly. If I can paraphrase our peerless leader in the White House, ‘Do you remember where you were on the night of the twenty-third?’”

  “I do,” Wolfe said, “But then, I am at home every night, this being a notable exception.” I braced for a glare, but Wolfe apparently didn’t feel I was worth the effort. “Mr. Schmidt says he is going to check his calendar; will you do the same?”

  Greenbaum paused for a breath. “Frankly, I don’t know why I should, but…yes, I’ll see where I was that night and let you know. I was most likely at home.”

  “Before you get around to asking me,” Elena said, “I can tell you now that I was home alone all evening, going over the first papers I’d assigned for the fall quarter. I remember that because I stayed up unusually late grading them and had only been asleep for four or five hours when I got the call about Hale. I have no Thursday classes and had planned to sleep late that morning.”

  “Who called you?” Wolfe asked.

  “Walter Cortland. He was so choked up that I had trouble understanding him at first. Said he’d just heard about Hale through somebody he knew on the campus security staff.”

  “Was anyone with you at any time that night?”

  “Not a soul. I go out of my way to be alone when I’m reading or grading papers.”

  “What time did Mr. Cortland telephone you?”

  “About eight, I think. That may not sound early, but I’m basically a night person, and as I said, I always sleep late on days when I don’t have classes.”

  Wolfe drained the last of his second bottle of beer and licked his lips. “When we began, I promised not to prolong the proceedings unnecessarily, and I will not. I thank all of you for your time and hope to be learning from both of you gentlemen tomorrow where you were on the twenty-third of last month.”

  “I still don’t see any reason for any of this,” Greenbaum grumbled as he uncrossed his long legs and got to his feet. Schmidt just shook his head, while Elena, lady that she is, smiled at Wolfe and then turned to me and flashed her pearly whites again. I rose with the three of them while Wolfe of course stayed planted in his chair, and I opened the door. I got another tantalizing smile from Elena, but both men were grim-faced as they marched out. I watched them go down the hall to the stairway and then shut the door, turning to Wolfe, who had closed his eyes, probably wishing that when he opened them, he’d be back home in his chair in the office.

  “Well, counting Cortland, you’ve now met four members of the esteemed Prescott faculty. Based on that, would you care to comment on the current state of academe in America?”

  “Pfui. With the possible exception of the woman, an unimpressive array. Archie, I will want breakfast in the room at eight tomorrow. I assume it should be ordered tonight?”

  I agreed and handed him the room service menu again, strongly suggesting that he make his own call this time. The experience would be good for him.

  THIRTEEN

  THE RINGING JARRED ME AWAKE, and I rolled over to stop it. “Good morn-ing, Mr. Good-win,” the singsong voice on the other end of the line chirped. “It’s ex-act-ly seven-thirty, and the temperature is fifty-three degrees.” I thanked her—I think—and slammed the receiver, missing the cradle on the first try. I’ll give the Prescott Inn its due: Not only is the food good, the mattresses are three-star too, at least the one in room two-thirty-four. From the moment my head hit the pillow around eleven-forty, I don’t remember a thing until Ms. Singsong’s call, which, as she pointed out, came ex-act-ly when I’d asked for it.

  Wolfe wasn’t the only one getting room service. I’d placed my own order the night before: link sausage, scrambled eggs, wheatcakes, a large orange juice, milk, coffee, and the Times. And I’ll be damned if it all didn’t come, as requested, at precisely eight o’clock, after I’d showered and shaved. These folks must have been tutored by Fritz.

  I ate and read the paper at the same pace as at home. After all, there was no reason to rush—our first appointment wasn’t until nine-thirty, when we would be honored by a visit from the president of the university. I had a fine view out the window of the campus across the street, which looked so good in the morning sunshine that it would have made a dandy picture for a school recruitment brochure, or whatever they use these days to sell colleges to kids coming out of high school—and of course to their checkbook-toting parents as well.

  At five to nine, having finished the Times and everything on my plate, plus the two-cup pot of coffee, I stretched, put my suitcoat on, and walked down the hall to check on Wolfe’s progress with breakfast. I rapped on his door once, twice, a third time. No answer. I called out his name, and again got nothing. I started to sweat as I reached for my key to his suite. I should mention that in the brownstone, the floor of the hall outside his bedroom is rigged so that when I turn a switch in my own room before I go to bed, it will set off an alarm if anyone comes within ten feet of his door. That may sound silly to you, but more than a few people would like to read Wolfe’s obituary, and some might very well want that badly enough to break into the house and plug him or stab him as he sleeps. That was on my mind as I opened the door, and I was wishing I’d slept on the sofa in Wolfe’s suite. And I was angry at myself for letting down my guard simply because we weren’t in Manhattan.

  The sitting room was empty, except for a room service table covered with the dishes from what apparently had been Wolfe’s breakfast. I went into the bedroom, dominated by a king-sized bed that had been slept in but now was empty. Ditto the bathroom. There were no indications of violence anywhere, and that probably was a good sign, although I was thinking Wolfe could have been marched out at gunpoint, which gives you an idea of my mental state.

  I went out, taking the stairs down two at a time to the lobby, where a young man with wire-rimmed glasses and sandy hair parted neatly in the center was at the front desk fiddling with some paperwork. “Did you see a large man, a very large man, pass by here?” I asked, realizing as I said it that I was out of breath.

  “Yes, sir, I did, the gentleman in suite two-thirty-two—Mr. Wolfe, I believe. He went out about ten minutes ago.”

  “Alone?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  He couldn’t have gotten far, at least not on his own, I thought as I pushed through the front doors and looked across the street at the campus. I shot a glance left and then right along the street, vaguely conscious that the campus was pretty lively this morning.

  And then I spotted him. He was standing with his walking stick next to a big oak tree about seventy yards to my right.

  “Enjoying the view?” I said as I got to within a few feet of him. “I thought maybe you’d gone over to the track to jog a few laps.”

  He ignored my comment. “Amazing,” he said. “I have counted twenty-nine students passing by—at least I assume they are students, despite their apparel—and seventeen of them had those…things…screwed into their ears.”

  “Walkmans.”

  Wolfe shuddered. “Unfathomable.”

  “Look, it’s pleasant to see you having fun conducting research on the habits of Collegius Americanus,” I said, “but couldn’t you have let me know you were going out? I’m not used to this much activity on your part. You had me worried.”

  Wolfe turned to me and opened his eyes wide. “Indeed? I hardly thought my walking less than a city block would be of concern to you, especially given that you saw fit, through a ruse, to uproot me and to drag me halfway up the state.”

  “We’re nowhere near halfway up the state,” I fired back. “Changing the subject, how was your breakfast?”

  “Passable. Dinner was better,” he grumped.

  “Be of good cheer. We’ll be home well before the sun has kissed the horizon. And besides, think of the war stories you’ll be able to regale Fritz with from this adventure. By the way, it’s now after nine. Is all the exercise getting you in shape to meet with the president of the university?”

  “Confound it, yes,” he s
aid, thumping his stick on the sidewalk, which for him is an act of violent physical exertion. With that, he did an almost respectable left-face and marched back to the Prescott Inn.

  Twenty minutes later we were in the suite, Wolfe settled in his semicomfortable chair and me in the same one I’d occupied the night before. We were working on a fresh pot of coffee that had just been brought up by a tall, gaunt waiter—our short-and-smiley friend apparently was off duty—when the phone rang. It was Potter, calling from the lobby to make sure we were there, and I told him to come ahead.

  I stood just outside our door to greet him when he strode along the hall from the stairway, looking every bit as dapper and successful and self-confident as he had when I’d seen him at a distance in the Student Union two days earlier. “Good morning, I’m Archie Goodwin,” I said cheerfully, ushering him into the room and introducing him to Wolfe, whom he eyed speculatively. “Mr. Wolfe,” he said in a Ted Kennedy voice that made me wonder if he’d practiced it, “I’ve heard a great deal about you; it’s an honor to meet you,” he said without conviction, taking a seat on the sofa, accepting my offer of coffee, and unbuttoning the coat of his custom-tailored suit, this one a sleek blue three-piece job. “Although I must admit I’m somewhat puzzled by the reason for your visit. Walter was cryptic, to say the least, when he told me on the phone of your desire to meet with me. Something about Hale Markham possibly having been murdered, I believe?” He fingered the knot of his striped silk tie.

  “Possibly, to use your word,” Wolfe said, setting his coffee cup on the end table. “Although that is yet to be determined to my satisfaction.”

  “But it was ruled an accident,” Potter insisted, frowning. “There was no indication of foul play, as I believe you people like to call it. Besides, who would have wanted to kill Hale, for heaven’s sake?”

  “That’s what Mr. Goodwin and I are trying to determine, sir. We’re hoping you can help us.”

  “I’ll do what I can, of course,” Potter answered, spreading his hands. “But I’m sure that if there were even the slightest chance that Hale had been murdered, the police would be investigating, and I haven’t heard anything from them to indicate that this is the case.”

  “If you’ll indulge me, please,” Wolfe said. “I understand Mr. Markham had been antagonistic toward one of the school’s prospective benefactors, Leander Bach?”

  “Oh, that business.” Potter dismissed it with a wave of the hand. “The school paper blew it all out of proportion, as papers, particularly those that are student-run, tend to do.” He beamed at Wolfe paternally, which didn’t go over big.

  “Isn’t it true, however, that Mr. Markham publicly decried Mr. Bach’s bequest?”

  Potter considered the question, then nodded grimly. “He said something in one of his classes, yes. But then, Hale always had been outspoken.”

  “And isn’t it also true that because of his remarks, both in the classroom and in the campus newspaper interview, Mr. Bach withdrew his offer?”

  Potter took a deep breath and then a sip of coffee, dabbing his lips deliberately with his napkin. “Leander was upset, and I can’t say that I blame him. After all, here’s a man who was ready to give his alma mater an unprecedented gift. An incredible gift. Word of it got out—I don’t honestly know how, but universities, Mr. Wolfe, are like small towns—and that’s when Hale unloaded. I still think things would have been all right if the paper hadn’t picked up on what he said. When Leander found out, he was—well…angry, to say the least. Felt like he’d been ill-used. I think you can understand that.”

  “I can indeed. The benefactor spurned. Did he and Mr. Markham ever talk after that?”

  “Lord, no!” Potter’s handsome mug expressed horror. “I’m not sure they ever talked even before that. Hale had no use for Bach, and Leander obviously wanted nothing to do with Hale after what happened. In fact, he’d never much cared for Hale’s, uh, politics, to say the least.”

  Wolfe fixed his gaze on the president. “It’s been said, I believe, that after what happened, Mr. Bach would never give a cent to Prescott as long as Hale Markham remained on the faculty.”

  “Who said that?” Potter jerked forward, spilling a sip’s-worth of coffee on his trouser leg. But he didn’t seem to notice it. “I never heard it.”

  Wolfe raised his shoulders a fraction of an inch and then lowered them. “Perhaps it was just talk. What is Mr. Bach’s attitude about a gift to the school now?”

  “That’s confidential,” Potter said stiffly.

  “Come now, Mr. Potter,” Wolfe said, leaning forward in his overburdened chair. “Mr. Goodwin and I are not here to generate exclusive stories for some newspaper. We are interested in learning the circumstances of Mr. Markham’s death, and I submit that our interests and yours coincide—or at least they should.”

  “But I’m already satisfied that his death was accidental,” Potter said, running a hand lightly over his dark, well-styled hair and looking pleased with himself. “Why should I put up with your interrogation just because one of Markham’s chums mistakenly thinks he was murdered? I assume Walter Cortland is your client.”

  Wolfe met Potter’s gaze. “Why indeed should you have to put up with this—specifically, with me? As president of the university, the whole university, not just segments or special interests within it, you are naturally expected to be concerned with everything affecting the institution, how it functions, how it is perceived. If a murder has been committed—and I am not ready to state this as fact—your lack of cooperation would surely find its way to light.”

  “With your help?” Potter said sharply.

  Wolfe shrugged again, saying nothing. Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty. I thought Potter was going to skedaddle, but when he got halfway out of the chair, he sank back again, looking suddenly very tired.

  “All right,” he sighed. “I’m going to take a chance and trust you. What relatively little I know about your reputation is positive.” His tone became very earnest; it was a nice performance. “Mr. Wolfe, the fact is that Leander has now committed to give the university a sum, a magnificent one, I’m proud to say. But please, I beg you to keep this confidential. You saw what happened the last time this kind of news slipped out.”

  “And he made this commitment after Mr. Markham’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Mr. Markham could truly be said to have stood in the way of this gift?”

  This time it was Potter’s turn to shrug. “I’d prefer not to think of it in those terms.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Markham, particularly recently?”

  “So this is an inquisition. All right, I’ll tell you; I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me. I found Hale Markham to be highhanded, arrogant, intransigent, and intolerant of the views of others to the point of obnoxiousness. And frankly, I don’t think he made the good of the school primary. He was interested first, last, and always in what benefited Hale Markham and Hale Markham alone. Am I glad he’s dead? No—of course not; he was a superb teacher and a scholar of the first order. Am I happy we’re getting that contribution from Leander Bach? You’re damn right I am, very happy. If that seems contradictory, so be it…” Potter leaned forward and screwed up his well-tended face, as if trying to recall something. “You know, there was something that happened, just a few days before Hale died, I think, maybe three or four. I hadn’t thought much about it, what with it being typical of him.”

  “Yes?” Wolfe prompted.

  Potter fingered a blue Wedgwood cuff link. “Before I go on, I want you to know I don’t believe this had any significance, given what happened later. Still, it was interesting. Hale came to see me one afternoon. He’d actually called the day before and asked for an appointment—if you’re interested in the specific date, my secretary surely has it on her calendar. Anyway, I remember thinking at the time—hoping, really—that Hale was coming to tell me he planned to retire. That wasn’t it, though. Mr. Wolfe, are you aware th
at Orville Schmidt has recently completed a book?”

  Wolfe nodded. “The tome of George Marshall and the Truman Doctrine?”

  “Correct. Well, although it isn’t out yet, won’t be for another month or so, Hale had somehow got hold of bound galleys or a review copy. He had just finished reading it and he came storming in to say that he spotted six places where material was blatantly plagiarized from previous books on the subject or the period. He claimed whole paragraphs were lifted, practically verbatim, without attribution and with only a word or two changed.”

  “Indeed? What did he intend to do with this information?”

  “That’s the interesting thing,” Potter said, pausing for coffee. “He told me he merely wanted me to know about it. He said something like ‘I stirred things up enough when Orville’s other book came out; I’m sitting this one out. But you should know in case there’s a flap.’”

  “Did you get the impression that Mr. Markham was going to divulge his discovery to others?”

  “Not really. Although knowing Hale, it wouldn’t surprise me if he planned to let Orville know what he’d found, if only to watch him squirm.”

  “Did you verify Mr. Markham’s findings?” Wolfe asked.

  Another shrug. “No, although he gave me a list of the sources from which Orville allegedly lifted the material. As far as I was concerned, he—Hale, that is—was drawing an inordinate degree of satisfaction from the whole matter. I found it graceless. Now, is there anything else you’d like to know? If not, I really should be on my way. I’ve got a full calendar today.”

  “I thank you for giving me a few of your precious minutes, Mr. Potter,” Wolfe said dryly. “Before you leave, can you account for your time on the night Hale Markham died—the twenty-third of last month?”

  “My God, you’ve got crust,” Potter said, spacing his words for effect in a Kennedy-esque voice just above a whisper. “I’ve just leveled with you, told you something highly confidential, and then this.” The man should be on Broadway.