The Bloodied Ivy (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 3)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Including Hale Markham?”

  “Very good, Mr. Wolfe, very good,” Bach said with an engaging grin. “You’re getting back to the reason we’re together, as well you should. I’m afraid it’s easy for me to get off on what Annette calls tangents, at least that’s what she always tells me,” he said, turning to his assistant, who allowed herself a faint smile. “You said on the phone that there was reason to believe Markham’s death wasn’t an accident—oh, by the way, Keith Potter did call me, just after you did. He was hot, called you a ‘loose cannon.’ Said he couldn’t understand why you thought Markham was shoved over that cliff. Tell you the truth, I have to take his side on that one.”

  Wolfe drained the beer in his glass and opened the second bottle. “There are a number of reasons for my suspicions, but I’m not yet prepared to share them. I will say, however, that Mr. Markham did not seem to be lacking enemies, or at least detractors.”

  “Ah, I get your drift, of course—I’m supposed to be one of those enemies. Well, to repeat something I already said on the phone, I’d never even met the man. But most of what I knew about him, I didn’t like.”

  “For instance?”

  Bach snorted. “I think you know, but of course you want to hear me say it. First off, his philosophies on government were kindergarten stuff. The guy only saw things in blacks and whites—no shadings. Second, dammit, he was a symbol of Prescott, which for my money gave the school a bad odor. Third, from all I’ve ever heard, he was a mean cuss to boot. Hell, I know folks have called me mean, too, but if anybody ever says I’m not fair, they’ve got a fight on their hands. Now Markham, he was mean and narrow-minded.”

  “But there are a great many impassioned opinions and fiercely defended convictions in the world of higher learning,” Wolfe said. “It would appear that the significant point of contention between you was in the area of philosophy.”

  “True enough.” Bach nodded. “I can’t argue that.”

  “I understand there was trouble over a gift you had contemplated making to the university.”

  “That’s understating it. I assume you’ve already delved into this, being a thorough detective, but let me give you my perspective. Through the years, I’ve supported Prescott financially—not with huge amounts, mind you, but steadily. I was a student there ages ago, for only a year, but it was the only college I ever had, and the place did me a hell of a lot of good, gave me some values that I like to believe I still hold. Anyway, for some time I’d been thinking about a large contribution to the school, really large. A year or so after Keith Potter became president, he and I started talking seriously about major projects, and I told him I wanted to pop for something big, felt I owed it to the place. Anyway, we met off and on for months—hell, it was more than that, it was over a year, discussing all kinds of projects. Finally I said I was prepared to give enough to build a new science building, as well as put up the seed money for a major capital campaign aimed at remodeling a whole slew of other campus buildings that had been allowed to get rundown—God knows there were plenty of them. Then—”

  Wolfe held up a palm. “Mr. Bach, before you continue, a question. Is it true that you stipulated you would withhold this money as long as Hale Markham was still on the faculty?”

  “Hellfire, I wish I could have made such a stipulation,” Bach chuckled. “What with tenure, though, he could pretty much stay as long as he liked. When I complained about what Markham was doing to the school’s image, Keith Potter did tell me that he probably wouldn’t be around much longer.”

  “What did you take that to mean?”

  “I get your drift! Not that Keith was going to shove him over that cliff, if that’s where you’re headed. No, I took it to mean that Keith would find a way to, shall we say…encourage his retirement.”

  “Were you willing to go ahead and make your gift while Markham was still actively teaching?”

  “Reluctantly, because in any case, the guy wasn’t going to be around forever. But that was before word of the gift got out. I suppose you know about that?”

  “I would like your perspective.”

  “First I heard of the mess was when Keith called me at my office. He said news of the whole business had apparently leaked out, and that the school newspaper had run an interview with Markham in which that bastard said the university could do without my money, that I was a Commie, for God’s sake. With serious issues like South Africa to be concerned about, that fugitive from the Stone Age was behaving like he was Joe McCarthy on one of his witch-hunts. Anyway, I was steamed, really steamed, and I told Keith that I wouldn’t give a damn dime to the school, much as I loved it, as long as Markham was around. I told the campus paper the same thing when they called, too. And I meant it, by God.”

  “With Markham gone, have you reconsidered?”

  Bach crossed his legs and looked into his glass, which was almost empty. “Confidentially, yes. Keith wants to wait a decent interval after Markham’s death to trumpet it, though. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “How does he define a decent interval?”

  “Oh, about another month, but I think word is seeping out around the edges. It’s pretty hard to keep anything quiet at a university, as I’ve been finding out. Now I’m going to guess one of your next questions,” Bach said, leaning forward. “Where was I when Markham died? All right, what day was that?”

  Wolfe turned to me, asking the question without speaking. “September twenty-third, late in the evening, or after midnight, which would have made it the twenty-fourth,” I said.

  “Where was I that day?” Bach asked, addressing Annette.

  She pulled a leather book from her purse and unzipped it. “On the morning of the twenty-third, you were at a meeting with the Pacific Petroleum Company executive committee in Los Angeles,” she replied in a businesslike drawl you could get used to liking. “You flew in the company plane that afternoon to Seattle, where you attended a dinner honoring Senator Beattie. You had breakfast in Seattle on the twenty-fourth with the publisher of the local newspaper, and then you flew back to New York, arriving here late in the afternoon.”

  “Actually, I got back after dark,” Bach corrected. “I remember the trip now, Annette, thanks. Mr. Wolfe, plenty of people will vouch for my being at those events, not that it matters.”

  The phone rang, and I picked it up at my desk while Bach went on talking. It was Cortland, who was jabbering so fast I had to ask him to slow down. He did, and I took notes on what he was telling me, working to keep my face under control. After he finished, I thanked him and said we’d be back to him soon. He was all wound up and wanted to keep going, but it was obvious he had nothing more to contribute so I cut him off.

  Because Wolfe can’t read my shorthand—nobody can but me—I copied in English what Cortland had told me and got up, walking to Wolfe’s desk and putting the sheet on his blotter. “That was Mr. Wilson,” I told him, using one of our codes. “He thought you’d want to know about this.”

  “…anyway,” Bach continued, “I can’t say that I’m sorry Markham is dead, but as far as murder, it seems to me that this whole thing is being dramatized. After all, who’d really want to kill him?”

  “Apparently the same individual who pushed one of his students into Caldwell’s Gash sometime today or tonight,” Wolfe said sourly, holding the paper I’d just handed him. “The body of a young woman named Gretchen Frazier has been found at the precise spot where the corpse of Mr. Markham was discovered.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “THE HELL YOU SAY!” BACH snapped upright at Wolfe’s words, almost spilling what little water was left in his glass. “Somebody else is dead at Prescott?”

  “So Mr. Goodwin just learned on the telephone.” Wolfe’s expression was grim. “The young woman who had been described as Mr. Markham’s outstanding graduate student.”

  “When was she found? How did she die?”

  “Our report is incomplete, although Mr. Goodwin may have something to add to the message h
e handed me.”

  “Not really,” I said. “As Mr. Wolfe told you, Gretchen Frazier’s body apparently was found not long ago at the bottom of Caldwell’s Gash, right where Markham’s body had been discovered. It appears that she, like Markham, went over the edge.”

  “That’s hideous—it sounds like ritual killings.” It was Annette Carswell, with shock in her soft drawl. She fastened her eyes on Wolfe and then on me, as if demanding an explanation.

  “Whatever it is, that should end everyone’s doubts as to whether Markham was murdered,” I observed.

  “Incredible,” Bach said, his voice an octave higher. “This is a terrible thing for the school, damned terrible.”

  “And not so great for either Markham or Gretchen Frazier,” I said.

  “Oh, of course, of course, I didn’t mean to sound callous,” the old tycoon put in quickly. “Who called you?” It was more like a demand than a question.

  “A source whom Mr. Goodwin and I consider to be reliable,” Wolfe snapped.

  “All right, all right, I don’t blame you for not wanting to answer. Confidentiality between practitioner and client and all that,” Bach conceded. “I’ll assume it’s that professor that Keith Potter told me about—what’s his name?—Cortland. The one who was such a close friend of Markham’s and was sure he was murdered, so he paid you to find out. I don’t know what you’re charging him, but it can’t be all that much, given faculty salaries. I’ll triple whatever it is and hire you to do the same thing—find who killed both Markham and that girl. It must be the same person.”

  “What is your sudden interest?” Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Just minutes ago, you were arguing that Markham’s death wasn’t murder.”

  “That was before we heard about the girl, and what happened must be more than a coincidence. Okay, it looks like you were right. As to why the interest, I’ve told you how I feel about Prescott. The longer these deaths go on unsolved without somebody getting nailed, the worse the school looks. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do, sir. As you have observed, though, I already am engaged in determining the truth. Do you feel that I would increase my efforts if my compensation were greater?”

  “Money sets the world in motion.” Bach clearly expected no argument on that.

  “So Publilius Syrus wrote. And it would be fatuous of me to gainsay my fondness for monetary reward. However, changing clients in midcourse is a dubious practice for a number of reasons, most of which I’m sure you recognize and sympathize with.”

  Bach yanked at his tie and folded his arms across his chest. “Point taken. Well, regardless of who the client is, you’re on this thing. Good. And so, I would hope, are the local cops.”

  “I won’t presume to speak for them, sir,” Wolfe said, “but it seems likely they now will find themselves under considerable pressure.”

  “Hah—I should think so. Well, I’ll take no more of your time; you’ve got more important things to do than to humor me,” Bach said good-naturedly as he got to his feet. His personal assistant stood, too. Our eyes met and I smiled, but got nothing in return except a cool green glance. I walked them to the front hall and helped Annette with her coat while Bach, ever independent, tugged his own on hurriedly. “Mr. Goodwin,” he said, shaking my hand firmly, “I hope Wolfe gets this thing untangled fast. I frankly don’t put much stock in the Prescott police. Thanks for the drink and the hospitality. Good night.” Annette shook hands, too, but only nodded after I warmly wished her a good evening. She might have done all right in the looks segment of a beauty pageant, but she would have washed out in the Miss Congeniality competition.

  When I got back to the office after bolting the front door behind our guests, I found Wolfe sitting with his eyes closed. “Well, what now?” I asked. I got no answer, and after a full minute of silence I tried again.

  “Okay, now I understand. We do nothing, right? We wait for the bodies to pile up at the bottom of Caldwell’s Gash and eventually the only one left alive is the murderer, is that it? Sorry I’m so slow on the uptake. All that driving up to Prescott and back must have dulled my senses.”

  “So that’s the explanation,” Wolfe said, opening his eyes and glaring at the empty glass on his blotter. “I need beer.”

  “Normally I’d tell you to get it yourself, but I know the strain you’ve been under,” I told him, pushing to my feet and heading for the kitchen. I returned with two chilled bottles and set them down in front of him. “Service with a smile,” I said, returning to my desk the long way, via the makeshift bar, where I mixed myself another Scotch.

  “Archie, you mentioned something earlier about Markham having kept a log of the books he checked out of the library.”

  “I’ll be damned, I didn’t know you were listening. Yeah, I told you about his library books, his clothes, and his—”

  “I’d like to see that list of books, please.”

  By that, Wolfe meant he wanted a printout. It would have been easier, of course, for me to simply pop the disk in and have him read it on the screen, but as I learned in the months we’d had the computer, he refused to use the terminal. He didn’t trust anything that wasn’t on the desk in front of him in black and white.

  I briefly considered tweaking him again about this new idiosyncrasy, but checked myself. However strange the request, he actually was doing something. This was progress. I put the LIBRARY BOOKS disk into the computer and activated the printer, which chattered for a little under a minute, spitting out the list. I tore off the sheet of paper and walked it to Wolfe’s desk, laying it in front of him with a mild flourish:

  Wolfe studied the list, scowled, and tossed it aside. “His checking account now, please.”

  “Going to see if he wrote a check for those overdue books in August?” I asked. I began to suspect this was merely an exercise to keep me from harassing him. Or worse, maybe it was the only idea he had, and he was firing blindly, hoping to hit something. “Here’s his check ledger since the first of the year,” I said three minutes later, handing him another printout. “Balance as of last entry, eleven hundred ninety-six dollars, fifty-five cents. Do you want his other finances, too?”

  Wolfe shook his head as he scanned the list of checks, then tossed it aside, too, and rose, heading for the door.

  “That’s it?” I asked. “No more printouts? No orders for me?”

  “Archie, it is now eleven-thirty-five,” he said, stopping in the doorway to the hall. “Tomorrow is soon enough to plan a course of action. Good night.”

  I started to call after him that it was never too soon to plan a course of action, but before I could get my phrasing just right, I heard the banging of the elevator door, followed by the whir of the motor as it labored to carry its load of a seventh of a ton upstairs.

  I sat at my desk for several minutes, sipping the last of the Scotch and pondering the day’s events. A second death had been visited upon Prescott. A millionaire—or maybe he’s a billionaire—had come to the house offering to pay triple the fee we were working on and got told thanks, but no thanks. And a beautiful woman looked right through me as though I were invisible. And after all this, the resident genius pulls a Scarlett O’Hara and tells me tomorrow is another day. Is it any wonder that I indulge myself in an occasional sip of something stronger than milk?

  NINETEEN

  I HAD AN INKLING THAT Monday would be more than a little hectic, and my inkle was right. I was in the kitchen attacking link sausage, scrambled eggs, muffins, and coffee at eight-fifteen when the phone rang. “It’s Mr. Cohen,” Fritz said, cupping the receiver. “He sounds excited.”

  “He always sounds excited; it’s an occupational hazard. Tell him I’ll call him as soon as I finish eating.”

  Fritz repeated my instructions into the phone, then listened and said “no” twice before hanging up. “He wasn’t happy, Archie. He tried to get me to interrupt you while you were eating, but of course I would not do that.”

  “Of course. Fritz, I don’t say this often enough
—you are a gem.” He blushed and turned his back to me as he went on with preparations for lunch. Fritz Brenner gets easily embarrassed by compliments, but don’t think for a moment that he doesn’t like to get them, whether they’re about his cooking or anything else he does in the brownstone, which includes playing waiter, butler, housekeeper, phone answerer, and all-around indispensable man.

  Lon undoubtedly had seen the story on Gretchen Frazier’s death in the morning edition of the Times. Six paragraphs long, it was on page fourteen in the first section. It said her body was found at the bottom of Caldwell’s Gash by two joggers a little after seven Sunday evening, which would have put it just about sunset. Death was attributed to “massive head injuries” apparently suffered in the 125-foot fall, according to the county medical examiner. The Times quoted Prescott Police Chief Carl Hobson as saying “Foul play has not been ruled out. We are investigating.” And of course mention was made that Gretchen was an honors graduate student whose adviser, Hale Markham, had been found dead in similar circumstances in the same location a few weeks earlier. One further irony the paper pointed out: A fence along the rim of the Gash at the point where both Markham and Gretchen went over the edge was to have been installed today.

  I dialed Lon and got him on the first ring. “Archie, what in the name of Mario Cuomo is happening up at Prescott? Don’t think I’ve forgotten your supposedly innocuous call the other day. And then I pick up this morning’s Times and read about that coed. Something tells me we’re not talking coincidence here.”

  “Something tells me you’re right, friend. I can’t say much right now, mainly because I don’t know much.”

  “And you call yourself a friend? Oh, come on, Archie. Give me something.”

  “Okay, but not for publication yet. If any of what I’m about to tell you gets into print now, I’ll clam up later, when the real story develops, assuming there is one. Got it?”