The Bloodied Ivy (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 3)

by Robert Goldsborough

  My next call was to Leander Bach’s office, and again I went through the switchboard. This time, however, when I gave my name and got passed to Bach’s office, the call went directly to Annette Carswell. “Yes, Mr. Goodwin?” came the ten-degree-Fahrenheit voice.

  I repeated basically the same speech I’d given Hobson. “Mr. Bach is at home this morning, but I expect him in the office later,” she replied. “If he decides to come—and I stress the if—he’ll probably ask me to accompany him.”

  “Fine with us,” I told her, and we left it that she’d call to let me know one way or the other.

  “Eight-to-five he shows,” I said to Wolfe. “Cramer next?” My answer was a nod, so I dialed the number I know by heart, and Wolfe picked up his phone when Cramer came on the line. “Inspector, I didn’t realize I would be calling you this soon after your visit. You said you wanted an invitation to my next…I believe ‘charade’ is the term you used. It will be tonight at nine o’clock.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Cramer murmured. “Who else is coming?”

  Wolfe recited the list, including Hobson. “Sergeant Stebbins of course is also welcome,” Wolfe said, but all he got in return from Cramer was another “I’ll be damned” before he said he’d be there and hung up.

  We were back in the office after lunch with our coffee when the next installment came—in the form of a call from the president of Prescott University. “Mr. Wolfe, I saw Walter Cortland a few minutes ago, and he informed me of your gathering tonight,” Potter said. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to accept because of a previous commitment.”

  “I would strongly advise you to rearrange your schedule,” Wolfe murmured, closing his eyes.

  “When you’re in my position, that’s not always easy to do,” was the stiff reply.

  “I appreciate that, sir. But I naturally assumed, given the impact these recent events have had on the university and its image, that you might want to be present. I am expecting several of your faculty to attend.”

  Potter probably thought he was too refined to swear, but I know he was itching to. He, too, paused, and then muttered something about seeing if he couldn’t postpone a meeting. He asked for the time and the address, and when he got them, he hung up.

  “I’ll give nine-to-five on that one,” I said. “Now all we have to do is hear back from Cortland.”

  “You will receive a call from him in the next hour,” Wolfe said, “and he will tell you that they are all coming, although both Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Greenbaum howled loudly about it, and Mr. Schmidt at first flatly refused to come. He also will tell you Mrs. Moreau reacted far more positively, agreeing almost immediately to come.”

  “Pretty smug, aren’t you? Well, I don’t want to bet against you because I’m hoping all of them show, but it would serve you right if they didn’t follow your script. A little humility would be a healthy thing for you.”

  “Archie, too often what we refer to as humility is only false modesty strutting on the parade ground.”

  “Very nice. Who said it?”

  “I did,” Wolfe replied, returning to his book.

  At three-twenty-five, Cortland called, and I was glad Wolfe wasn’t listening in. “Mr. Goodwin, I spoke to all of them. Orville and Ted really bridled about making the trip to Manhattan, and Orville insisted, rather violently, if you must know, that he was remaining at home, but they both eventually calmed down and said they will be in attendance—in fact, we probably all will drive in together. Elena was more matter-of-fact about coming—she’ll be there, too. I’m not so convinced about Keith; he became testy when I told him and said he was going to call you—did he?”

  “Almost an hour ago. He was wrestling with himself, but I think we can count on him showing up.”

  “Mr. Goodwin,” Cortland said anxiously, “is there anything I should be aware of beforehand?”

  “Nope. Other than the fact that the office is going to be pretty crowded. See you at nine.” It was obvious he wanted to talk some more, but I told him I had work to do and politely got rid of him. At least I like to think I was polite.

  “Okay, you were more or less right about the Prescott crowd; they’re all coming,” I said to Wolfe. “Now it’s time for you to open up. I think I may have it partly figured, but I admit I’m still groping. Let me tell you how I see it.” I then proceeded to give him my theory, which turned out to be in the ballpark, although I was missing a few pieces that Wolfe supplied and that you may well have spotted some time back in this narrative. He got done laying it out for me in time to take the northbound elevator to the plant rooms at four o’clock, leaving me to begin planning for the evening’s activities.

  First, though, I called Lon Cohen. “It’s your old buddy, your old pal,” I told him. “Wolfe is going to dump the whole thing out here tonight, and unless one of them blabs afterward, none of the A.M. papers will have time to glom on to any of it before you do.”

  “What can you give me now?” Lon never gives up.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. But I promise I’ll call you as soon as the dust clears here tonight. If I had to guess, it would be some time around eleven, maybe eleven-thirty.”

  “Come on, Archie, let a little of it out now so I can begin working on assembling all this. Otherwise I’ll probably be at it all night.”

  “Sorry, no can do. But when you get it, you’ll get the whole package, and all I ask is that you spruce your layout of it up with photos of the legendary detectives Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin.”

  Before he hung up, Lon said something, and it wasn’t “thank you.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  BECAUSE WOLFE DOESN’T LIKE TURMOIL in the office when he’s ensconced there reading, drinking beer, or otherwise finding ways to occupy himself, Fritz and I did the setting up for the evening while he was upstairs playing with his plants. We moved in chairs from the dining room and front room—enough to accommodate everybody on the guest list plus a second policeman from Prescott. Cops always seem to travel in pairs, just like the nuns back home when I was a kid.

  Fritz has firm ideas on how a bar should be stocked, and they include carafes of both white and red wine, even though I’ve been telling him for years that nobody drinks red wine except at meals where red meat is served. “No, Archie, it is proper that red should be there, too,” he always insists, and in the interest of domestic tranquility, I invariably concede the point. When we were finished, Fritz slipped back to the kitchen to work on dinner—onion soup, beef Wellington, and cherry cobbler—and I went up to my room to shave and put on a fresh shirt. After all, we were having guests later in the evening, and nothing makes a worse impression than a twelve-hour growth, regardless of the grooming habits of certain prime-time TV stars.

  At dinner, Wolfe held forth on the American penal system, which he contended has succeeded only in increasing the number of people in the prisons while failing abysmally as an instrument for rehabilitation. I lobbed in a comment here and there but mainly listened and consumed three helpings of the beef Wellington, plus seconds on the cherry cobbler. When we went back to the office for coffee, Fritz came in with a message: A Miss Carswell had called while we were eating to say that she and Mr. Bach would be joining us at nine. “There’s my eight-to-five shot coming home,” I told Wolfe, but he seemed more interested in an article on vanda hybrids in his new orchid magazine, so I moved over to the computer and fiddled with the germination records to kill time.

  When the doorbell rang at eight-fifty-three, I made a bet with myself that it was Cramer. Sure enough, through the one-way panel I saw the impassive faces of the inspector and Sergeant Purley Stebbins. “Gentlemen,” I greeted them formally, opening the door and stepping aside. “You’re the first ones here; go right on into the office.” I got a nod from Purley, an honest, tough cop whom I’ve known, respected, and fought with for years, and who may respect me as well, although I know he thinks I can’t always be trusted. I got a snarl from Cramer, who in the right circumstances would snarl at his own
mother. I started to follow them into the office, but before I could get there the bell sounded again. This was the Prescott faculty contingent: Cortland, Schmidt, Greenbaum, and Elena Moreau, all of them, even Elena, looking like they’d rather be someplace—anyplace—else.

  I wished the quartet a good evening, taking coats, hanging them on the pegs in the hallway, and reserving a smile for Elena, who was wearing a businesslike cinnamon-colored dress that made me appreciate her sense of fashion. “How long will this take?” Greenbaum demanded. “A lot of us have got morning classes, you know, and we’ll be lucky to be back home before midnight.” I said something about how Wolfe doesn’t like to waste time and then ushered the professors into the office, where I introduced them to Cramer and Stebbins while Wolfe looked on.

  “New York police here?” Schmidt said, eyebrows raised. “May I ask why, Mr. Wolfe?”

  “They are here at my invitation. Inspector Cramer heads the New York Police Department’s Homicide Squad, and tonight’s discussion patently will be about homicide.”

  Schmidt started to yap, but he was interrupted by the doorbell, and this time I let Fritz get it while I took drink orders. Elena and Schmidt each asked for Scotch-and-water, while Cortland politely declined and Greenbaum snarled a “no.” I was handing drinks out when the new arrivals entered: Leander Bach and Annette Carswell, followed by Keith Potter. Bach, wearing another pricey pinstripe, shook hands with the others, while Potter, whose own suit was hardly shabby, put on a ceremonial smile, nodded to his colleagues, and stiffly greeted Cramer and Stebbins. Annette, looking fetching in a blue dress with a wide white collar, stayed discreetly in the background, which seemed to be her ongoing role with Bach.

  I had the chairs arranged in three rows and after a signal from Wolfe shifted to my task as usher. Bach got the red leather chair at the end of Wolfe’s desk, with Annette on his left in one of the yellow chairs. Filling out the front row were Potter on Annette’s left and Elena closest to me, also in yellow chairs. Behind them were Greenbaum, who was farthest from me, with Schmidt on his left and Cortland behind Elena. The back row of four chairs moved in from the dining room was reserved for the police. Stebbins was closest to me, with Cramer on his right and two vacant spots in the corner for the big cheese from Prescott and anybody he might bring along.

  Wolfe eyed the empty chairs and turned to me. I shrugged, and just then the bell rang again. “I’ll take it,” I said, and got to the hall in time to see Fritz opening the front door for Carl Hobson and another man, whom I recognized as the surly Lieutenant Powers. “We’ve been waiting for you,” I told them as Fritz took their coats. “But you’ll be happy to know we haven’t started yet.” Those words didn’t make them look the least bit happy, but I smiled anyway and directed them to the office. “Here are the last of our guests,” I announced cheerfully as we entered, and I introduced them around while they moved to the remaining seats, nodding to Cramer and Stebbins.

  “I don’t believe this!” Greenbaum sputtered. “There are now four policemen in this room, in a private home, apparently in an unofficial capacity, and there’s supposedly a lunatic killer among us, too—or at least that’s what we’ve been led to believe. This is bizarre!”

  “Mr. Greenbaum, please,” Wolfe said, holding up a palm. “To expand on what I said earlier, before everyone had arrived, the members of these two police departments are here at my invitation and remain at my sufferance. If there is indeed a murderer present, as you suggest, I should think you would be happy to have law enforcement officers at the ready.”

  “What I don’t understand is why we’re even here if this is a police matter,” Greenbaum persisted, getting white.

  “Let me make a suggestion,” Cramer rasped from the back of the room. “I’ve been at these things before. Wolfe says he has the answer to the deaths of two people. Maybe he does, and maybe he doesn’t, but I’m willing to hear what he has to say as long as it doesn’t take too long.”

  “It will not take an inordinate amount of time, Inspector.” Wolfe’s eyes moved around the room, stopping briefly at each face. “In fact, I think all of you will be surprised by the brevity of this gathering.” He stopped to pour beer and watch the foam settle before continuing. “As you all surely know, I was hired by Mr. Cortland to investigate Mr. Markham’s death, which he held was murder.”

  “And which has now been borne out,” Cortland cut in, waving his right arm. Greenbaum started to mutter again, and you could see that Schmidt was getting ready to jump in, mouth-first.

  “If you please,” Wolfe said, readjusting his bulk and showing his displeasure at the interruption with a frown. “There was nothing initially to indicate in any way that Mr. Markham was slain, is that correct, sir?” He directed his question at Hobson.

  The chief cleared his throat and looked around uneasily, as if intimidated by the combined mental horsepower of the gathering. “That’s right,” he said huskily.

  “What did your men think of the branches at the top of the Gash where Mr. Markham began his fall?”

  “Uh, they were…broken—that is, some of them were.”

  “Indeed. Cleanly?”

  “I don’t know. That is, I think so.”

  “You think so. But you don’t know.” Wolfe’s tone was faintly mocking. He was sticking it to Hobson for the jerking around he got up in Prescott. If I were a nobler person, I might have felt sorry for the country cop, but I was enjoying every second.

  Wolfe dismissed Hobson with a glare. “The Prescott police and most of the rest of you here seemed comfortable with the medical examiner’s ruling of accidental death. Further buttressing this position, Mrs. Moreau told Mr. Goodwin that the professor had had occasional fainting spells in recent months. Clearly, one such spell could have resulted in the fatal plunge into Caldwell’s Gash during one of his evening constitutionals through the area called Old Oaks.” My eyes went to Elena, who appeared to be having a hard time getting comfortable in her chair.

  “But Mr. Cortland persisted in his belief that the fall had not been an accident,” Wolfe continued. “I must admit that early on, I demurred, despite Mr. Goodwin’s cajoling, and I accepted the commission primarily to humor him. I now confess publicly that he—along with Mr. Cortland—was correct and I was wrong.”

  “Okay, so you’re human,” Cramer piped up. “Believe it or not, some of us knew that a long time ago. I thought you said this was going to be brief.”

  “And so it will be, sir,” Wolfe replied, “but just as you and the other law officers are here to learn the identity of a murderer, I am here to earn a fee. Mr. Cortland, am I proceeding at too slow a pace?”

  “No—not at all,” the professor said, blinking and looking surprised that his opinion was asked.

  “Very well. It did not take me long to discover that Hale Markham was a magnet for animosity. Based on what I learned about the man, it was not inconceivable that someone might indeed have wanted him dead. There were—”

  “Just a moment, please.” It was Keith Potter, sitting upright and squaring the shoulders of his gray glen plaid. “Would you care to clarify that last statement?”

  “I would not,” Wolfe said coldly. “As I started to say, there were a number of people who had reason to wish him ill. For instance, there was you, Mr. Potter. Your dream of a large grant from Mr. Bach apparently had been dashed by Markham. And—”

  “That’s slanderous!” Potter roared. He got halfway out of his chair but sat down with a thud when Wolfe’s open palm hit the top of his desk.

  “I cannot prevent you from leaving,” Wolfe told the president, “but I can stop your interruptions. Another outburst and I will instruct Mr. Goodwin to remove you from the room. I assure you that would be an easy task for him; he has dealt effectively with individuals far larger and more formidable than you.” I puffed out my chest to show that Wolfe knew whereof he spoke while Potter, his ears crimson, slid down in his chair.

  “Mr. Potter was not alone,” Wolfe went on. “Mr. B
ach, too, had felt Hale Markham’s vitriol. Before I go on, do you wish to quarrel with that statement?” he asked, turning to the tycoon.

  Leander Bach smiled and tilted his head to one side. “Can’t quarrel with it,” he said, scratching his chin. “By all means charge ahead. This is interesting. I’m glad I came.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Bach had been embarrassed—and angered—by Mr. Markham’s violent public denunciation of his prospective gift, which was said to have been easily the largest in the university’s history. Their quarrel was public knowledge, given that it was carried on largely in the columns of the campus newspaper. Less public were the differences between Mr. Markham and Messrs. Schmidt and Greenbaum.”

  “Do we have to go through this again?” It was Orville Schmidt, shaking his big head so vigorously that his double chins jiggled.

  “I’m merely reviewing the situation for everyone’s benefit,” Wolfe said. “You, sir, were openly antagonistic to Hale Markham and he to you. He resented your getting the post of department chairman and you resented his success and recognition nationally as an author and celebrity.”

  “Celebrity? Aren’t you indulging in hyperbole?” Schmidt asked, his bushy white eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead.

  “Perhaps, but he clearly was better known than anyone else at the school. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Potter?”

  The president passed a hand over his sculptured black hair. “I suppose so, although he worked at getting personal publicity harder than anyone else, too.”

  “Just so. One might go so far as to call him a publicity hound, which no doubt further irritated a number of his colleagues. Back to you, Mr. Schmidt: Is it not true that Mr. Markham went out of his way to harass and even humiliate you in staff meetings and on other public occasions?”

  “You know damn well it’s true,” Schmidt muttered. “We’ve been over this once already.”