Silver Spire (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 6)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “One more thing,” I told him. “I’d like to keep these notes, just long enough to show them to Mr. Wolfe. They may help pique his interest. I promise I’ll return them to you intact—whether or not Mr. Wolfe takes the case.”

  Morgan looked at the notes doubtfully, then shrugged. “I didn’t really intend to leave them. Well … all right, if you promise that I’ll get them back.”

  “I promise. Do you want a receipt?”

  “No, no, your word is more than good enough, Mr. Goodwin,” he said, not sounding as if he meant it.

  “Okay, then this is all I need for now,” I told him as I stood up.

  He also got to his feet, looking uncertain. “When will I hear from you?”

  “Today. Will you be in your office?”

  He took thirty words to say he would, and I hustled him out as politely as possible, all the while reassuring him I would call him before day’s end. I didn’t like the odds of Wolfe accepting a commission from Morgan and Bay as clients. After all, as I had pointed out none too subtly to Morgan, Wolfe was about as likely to work for a church as he was to send Fritz out for a Quarter-Pounder for dinner. But I did have one bargaining chip with the Big Guy: The almighty bank balance was in serious need of nourishment.

  TWO

  BACK AT MY DESK AFTER letting Morgan out, I still had five minutes before Wolfe’s arrival from his morning séance with the blossoms. I put the time to use by calling Lon Cohen at the New York Gazette.

  Lon has no title at the paper that I’ve ever heard of or seen in print, and his name is not on the paper’s masthead. But he occupies an office next door to the publisher’s on the twentieth floor, and he seems to know more about what goes on in New York, both aboveboard and below, than the city council and the police department combined. He has provided useful information to us on at least a gross of occasions, and we’ve reciprocated by giving the Gazette at least as many scoops. And, not incidentally, he also plays a mean hand of stud poker, as I rediscover to my sorrow almost every Thursday night at Saul Panzer’s apartment, where several of us have gathered with the pasteboards for years.

  “Morning,” I said after he’d answered his phone with the usual bark of his name. “Got a minute for a friend?”

  “I haven’t got a minute for my mother, let alone the mother of my children. What makes you special?”

  “Ah, a bit on the testy side today, are we? You shouldn’t be terse with someone who so thoughtfully lined your pockets with lettuce at the gaming table a week ago this very day.”

  “I did have a pretty fair night, didn’t I?” Lon responded, sounding almost mellow. “All right, what do you need to know? And what’s in it for me?”

  “Now there’s a cynical attitude,” I said. “See if I raise tonight when you’ve got a pair showing.”

  “Archie, I’d just love to go on bantering all morning, but at the risk of sounding like somebody from The Front Page, we’ve got a paper to put out.”

  “And a fine paper it is, me lad. Okay, what can you tell me in a few well-chosen sentences about the Reverend Barnabas Bay and his church over on Staten Island?”

  “Bay? He’s got a reputation for being smart, damned smart. Comes originally from someplace down south, maybe Georgia. He’s built a big following here in just a few years, and a huge building. Its name is a little too show bizzy for me—the Tabernacle of the Silver Spire. It’s got that name because the church, which is nondenominational, is topped by a metal spire, stainless steel or aluminum, I suppose, that dwarfs everything else around it. Controversial when it was built. But, at least according to our religion writer, Bay’s several cuts above the televangelists who’ve supplied us with so many juicy headlines in the none-too-distant past. By all accounts, he’s honest, earnest, and one hell of a spellbinder in the pulpit.”

  “Any hint of scandal?”

  “Not that’s come my way. No personal stuff I’ve ever heard about. He’s got a wife who’s a knockout, and I think four kids. About two years back, a handful of churches on the island and over in Jersey complained that they’d lost parishioners to him, but that happens all the time. Might just be that he’s giving ’em something they weren’t getting from their local pastors.”

  “The guy sounds too good to be true.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Walston—he’s our religion writer—after reading the Sunday piece he did on Bay a while back. But Walston swears that’s the real Bay. And the padre puts his money—or the church’s money—where his mouth is. The Silver Spire has set up several shelters for battered women and the homeless in Manhattan, and the church supplies all the money and staffing to support them, the works. Okay, I’ve given you more than a few sentences; what can you give me, as in, one: Why is Wolfe interested in Bay? And, two: Does the good reverend have feet of clay after all?”

  “I don’t have answers, because I don’t know myself—honest. But you can rest assured that if anything happens, you’ll be hearing from us.”

  “Yeah, and the check’s in the mail, right?” Lon growled, signing off with a mumble that sounded remotely like “good-bye.” After cradling the receiver, I just got the day’s mail opened and stacked on Wolfe’s blotter before the groaning of the elevator heralded his arrival from on high.

  “Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?” he asked as he detoured around the desk and settled into the chair constructed specifically to support his seventh of a ton. It’s a question he’s asked on thousands of mornings.

  “Like a baby,” I answered, as I have on thousands of mornings.

  So much for one of our daily rituals. He spun through the mail quickly, saw that it held nothing of interest, then pushed the buzzer on the underside of his desk. It squawks in the kitchen, signaling Fritz to bring beer—specifically, two bottles of Remmers. He then picked up his current book, Mars Beckons, by John Noble Wilford, which he was intending to read until lunch.

  “Before you get smitten with the idea of hitching a ride on the next Mars-bound rocket, we had a visitor this morning,” I told him.

  He set the book down deliberately and looked peevish. It’s his normal expression when his routine is messed with. I got an “All right, what is it?” glare, although his lips didn’t move.

  “A gentleman stopped by,” I began as Fritz entered silently, bearing a tray with two bottles of beer and a pilsner glass. “This gentleman’s boss is getting threatening notes, and he wants to hire you to find out who’s penning them.”

  The peevish expression remained as Wolfe poured beer and watched the foam settle. “Continue,” he said coldly.

  “You know as well as I do what the current state of our finances is,” I responded.

  Wolfe drew in air and let it out slowly, keeping his narrowed eyes on me. “Archie, you are maundering,” he snorted. “I am painfully aware that I will get no peace until you have unburdened yourself. Let’s get on with it.”

  This was going to be tricky. “You remember how you once said that a client’s line of work is far less important than the problem he presents to us?”

  “I expressed that thought in relation to a specific and unusual situation, as you well remember.”

  “Through the years, we’ve had a lot of unusual situations, and for my money, we have another one.” I looked at Wolfe and got no encouragement, but I’ve never been one to let that stop me. “The man on the receiving end of the threatening notes is well-known,” I went on. “Maybe you’ve heard of him; his name is Barnabas Bay.”

  “Pah. A clerical mountebank.”

  “Pah yourself. I know you have a lot of respect for the knowledge and opinions of our friend Mr. Cohen. He tells me that Bay is far from a mountebank, and that—”

  “You don’t even know the definition of the word,” Wolfe challenged.

  “Wrong. I looked it up after it had been used to describe you by someone in this very room a few years back. And at that, she was the second person to call you a mountebank. One more and I’m going to start believing
it. Anyway, Lon describes Bay as smart, honest, earnest, and a top-drawer preacher to boot. To say nothing of the good works his church does, among them shelters here in Manhattan for battered women and the homeless.”

  “Commendable,” Wolfe answered without conviction. “Suggest that he talk to the police about the notes.”

  “I did, but, at least according to his sidekick, Lloyd Morgan—he’s the man who stopped by—Bay is trying to avoid the kind of publicity that might result from an investigation.”

  “Given his line of work, his reaction would seem a prudent one,” Wolfe said.

  “That sounds suspiciously like a cheap shot,” I told him. “How about asking me for a verbatim report of my chat with Mr. Morgan?”

  Wolfe sighed and closed his eyes, probably hoping I would disappear. “It appears that I’ll get one whether I want it or not. Go ahead.”

  In the past, I’ve recounted conversations of hours in length to Wolfe without omitting a single word, so this shorty was a snap. I ended by placing the hate notes found in the collection plates in front of him. “Here, you may find these interesting,” I said.

  Wolfe made a face but studied the sheets in silence for ninety seconds, careful not to touch them with his fingertips. “Anyone with a concordance could have done this all in ten minutes, fifteen at most,” he said, waving a hand.

  “Okay, I’m willing to concede that there’s a gap in my knowledge: what’s a concordance?”

  “A refreshing admission. It is a biblical subject index. Many Bibles have them in the back. Return these to Mr. Morgan,” he said curtly, pushing the notes in my direction.

  “What should I tell him?”

  “To go to the police, of course,” he snapped, picking up his book. If I’ve learned anything at all about the foibles of genius in the years of living in the same household with one, it’s knowing when to keep after him and when to back off. This was one of those times to back off—if only for a while. I left Wolfe to his beer and book and busied myself with the orchid-germination records, which kept me occupied until lunchtime.

  Among the unwritten rules in the brownstone is that business—and that includes prospective business—is not to be discussed during meals. So as we feasted on Maryland crab cakes and Fritz’s Caesar salad with garlic croutons, Wolfe held forth on the advisability of the United States reorganizing into about a dozen states—certainly no more than fifteen. I mostly listened, chewed, and nodded, although I did ask who the rest of the country would make jokes about if there wasn’t a California to kick around anymore.

  As usual, we returned to the office after lunch for coffee, but I still wasn’t ready to renew the Bay campaign. Wolfe read until it was time to visit his orchids at four, while I balanced the checkbook, paid the bills, and reread the Gazette’s account of the zany Mets game against Cincinnati at Shea, in which our boys scored six runs in the second inning on only one hit, a bunt single. Shows you what can happen when the opponents make three errors, hit a batter, give you three walks, and throw a wild pitch.

  After Wolfe went upstairs, I called Morgan, who picked up on the first ring. “You talked to him?” he blurted before I could spit out anything other than my name.

  “Yes, but I have nothing definite to report. We’re going to discuss your problem again later.”

  “Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound terribly encouraging, does it?”

  “Now, I didn’t say that. I promised to report today, though, and I wanted to make sure I caught you before you went home. I’ll phone you again in the morning.”

  Morgan didn’t sound tickled with the news, but that was his problem; I had my own—getting Wolfe to take a church as a client. I tried him again when he came down from the plant rooms at six, and I’ll spare you the grim details, other than to say that he got so angry with my badgering, as he calls it, that he stalked out of the office, retreating to his bedroom until dinnertime. And following dinner, as we got settled in the office with coffee, I tried once more, pointing out to Wolfe that he didn’t have to go near the Silver Spire church himself.

  “As usual, I’ll do all the on-site work,” I told him, “and for that matter, you don’t have to be exposed to Bay or any of his religious types until the very end, when you’ve figured the thing out.”

  My answer was a glower and two sentences: “Archie, let me save your larynx further exercise on this subject. Under no circumstances will I accept a commission from Mr. Bay or his organization.”

  “Uh-huh. The bank balance be hanged, eh? What do you suggest I say to Morgan?”

  Wolfe turned a hand over. “Tell him whatever you like. This is not the first time we have rejected an entreaty, nor is it likely to be the last.”

  “Keep your pronouns in the first person where they belong,” I shot back. “I didn’t reject anything.”

  Wolfe glowered again and retreated behind his book, which gave me, some satisfaction, but not much. I contemplated quitting, something I’ve done for varying periods at least a dozen times over the years, but vetoed the idea because my vacation was coming up in less than a month, and Lily Rowan and I had all our reservations for two weeks in England and Scotland. True, I had a respectable amount squirreled away in savings and a few investments, but I was damned if I was going to let Wolfe off the hook for my well-earned furlough—with pay.

  Fortunately, I had a good reason to leave the brownstone that night, thereby possibly saving Wolfe from being brained with a blunt object and me from being booked on a murder charge. It was Thursday, meaning I had the above-mentioned engagement with cards and chips—both the poker and potato variety—at Saul’s place over on Thirty-eighth just east of Lexington. And this time, I was the big winner, while Lon—who never once mentioned Barnabas Bay—went home with empty pockets.

  The next morning, while Wolfe was up communing with the orchids, I called Lloyd Morgan from my desk in the office. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” I told him, “but Mr. Wolfe does not feel he can accept your problem.”

  I could hear an intake of air. “I was afraid of that,” Morgan groaned. “I gather that decision is irreversible?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Another deep breath. “Is there … anyone else you could recommend? Perhaps another investigator?”

  For those of you who are new to these precincts, when the need arises, as it frequently does, Wolfe employs two free-lances—Saul Panzer and Fred Durkin. Saul doesn’t look like much: barely five-seven, skinny, stoop-shouldered, usually in need of a shave, and with a face that’s two-thirds nose. But he’s got a sharper pair of eyes than Willie Mays in his prime, and when assigned to follow someone, he sticks to him—or her—like epoxy. He’s also in constant demand, and has more work than he can handle, although he’ll almost always drop whatever he’s doing for Wolfe.

  Fred Durkin is another story. He’s big—make that thick—somewhat on the slow side, and a long way from brilliant. Loyalty and honesty are two of his strong suits, though. And while he’s no Saul, he’s tenacious and damn good as a tail. Through the years, Wolfe has used him almost as much as Saul, but of late, business has been slow, which Fred has complained to me about more than once. Maybe this was one part of the reason I was leaning Fred’s way when Morgan posed his question. The other part was that the job didn’t seem all that complicated on the surface.

  Maybe you’d have done it differently. If so, I wish you’d been around that Friday morning to stop me before I gave Fred’s telephone number to Lloyd Morgan. Then you wouldn’t be reading this.

  THREE

  FOR THE NEXT ELEVEN DAYS, I barely gave a thought to the Tabernacle of the Silver Spire or to Lloyd Morgan or Fred Durkin. Part of the reason was that I had nudged Wolfe into accepting an honest-to-goodness case—although not a very exciting one—involving a small supermarket chain whose largest store, up in Westchester County, was coming up short on its receipts almost every day. The culprit, as Wolfe suspected early on based on my nosing around the store for two days, was a debt-l
aden assistant manager who had two accomplices—a pair of rosy-cheeked checkout girls, both teenagers, with the most innocent faces this side of a convent. Our fee wasn’t breathtaking, but given that the whole business took less than a week, we had no reason to complain.

  Another distraction—a pleasant one—was that La Rowan got more fired up by the day about our trip to Merrie Olde, and that enthusiasm started to rub off on yours truly, to the point that I was digesting guidebooks about places like the Lake Country and the Cotswolds and Loch Lomond. Oh, I did hear from Fred once, the very day I’d recommended him to Morgan. He called to find out what I knew about the church, as well as to ask why Wolfe had shied away from accepting the case.

  “Mr. Wolfe avoids most things having to do with formal religion,” I told him. I also gave him my impressions of Morgan, along with Lon’s comments about Bay as a preacher and spiritual leader. I signed off by saying, “Good luck, and give a holler if you need anything,” and I sent the threatening notes back to Morgan in a sealed envelope—at my expense—via Herb Aronson, for my money the most dependable cabbie in New York.

  The holler, when I got it, came from another quarter. It was a Tuesday morning about nine, and I was in the office typing up letters Wolfe had dictated the day before, when the phone rang.

  “Okay, Archie, better catch me up, and fast!” It was Lon Cohen, and the exclamation mark I put on the end of his sentence doesn’t do justice to the urgency in his voice.

  “Catch you up on what?”

  “You know damn well what,” he blurted. “The Silver Spire business, and Durkin.”

  “What about Durkin?” Now I was almost shouting myself, and my throat suddenly got as dry as Death Valley.

  “As if you didn’t know. He’s been tossed in the slammer—for murder.”

  “Wha-a-a-t? How did—”

  “Dammit, Archie, stop jerking me around. We’re coming up on deadline, and I’ve got to have something fast. The boss knows Durkin’s practically an employee of Wolfe’s, and he’s all over me to come up with an exclusive on this.”