“Her name?”
“Lucinda Forrester-Moore. She’s a widow, and well-known in society. Her picture is in the newspapers a lot.”
No argument there. Lucinda Forrester-Moore’s name seemed to pop up in at least one of the columns every few days, and she was a favorite subject for the photographers, too. The Gazette picture file on her was probably bulging. Lily Rowan had introduced us a couple of years back, I think at Rusterman’s restaurant, and while she has a few too many years on her for my taste, I have to admit that for an older model, she still looks to be in good running condition. Uncle Milos was doing all right.
“Is your uncle’s relationship with this woman a romantic one?” Wolfe asked.
“I wish I could say no,” Maria answered. “But I think he is … very interested. And she is a hunter.” She hit the arm of the chair with a fist. “She has always chased famous men—she is known for it. But Uncle Milos can’t see that. I’ve tried to tell him—”
“Is this relationship approaching marriage, Miss Radovich?” Wolfe asked.
“Lord, I hope not!” I jumped at the intensity of her answer, and I think it scared Maria herself. She blushed becomingly and cleared her throat before going on. “Uncle Milos has said several times through the years that he has no interest in getting married again.”
“Mr. Goodwin mentioned to me that your uncle had been married once years ago,” Wolfe said. “Is his former wife alive?”
“Yes. She is a lovely and gracious woman, Mr. Wolfe. She and Uncle Milos were divorced before I was born, and she moved to London.”
“Who is she?” Wolfe asked.
“Her name is Alexandra Adjari. I met her for the first time when Uncle Milos and I settled in London and he took the conducting job there. They were not on friendly terms, but she wanted to get to know me.”
“She’s back to her maiden name,” Wolfe said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, she never remarried. I think she had money of her own, from before she knew Uncle Milos. She has a large flat in Mayfair.”
“Just so,” said Wolfe. “Have you communicated with her recently?”
“We write at Christmas, but that’s all, and I haven’t seen her since Uncle Milos and I moved here from London,” Maria said.
Wolfe started in on the orchestra again; I’d forgotten how good his technique was when he felt like working, and this was the closest he’d come to working in a long time. He chatted with Maria about orchestras in general, then gradually worked his way to individuals before retreating to generalities again. He repeated this over and over, and I filled at least two dozen notebook pages with the conversation, but these samples will give you the flavor of the entire session:
W: How many musicians does the orchestra have?
M: It varies depending on the particular piece being played, but for a big symphonic number, there are over a hundred onstage, I think.
W: Do they always occupy the same seats?
M: Basically, except for some shuffling around when special instruments are used.
W: Such as?
M: Oh, guitar, glockenspiel, celesta, things like that. And on another page:
W: Are there women in the orchestra?
M: Oh, yes.
W: How many: Ten? Fifty?
M: I don’t know—maybe about fifteen.
W: Has your uncle ever had a particular interest in any one of them?
M: (blushing) No, never. That would be grossly unprofessional, and Uncle Milos is very strict about things like that. He keeps his private life totally separate from his work.
W: How does he feel about liaisons between orchestra members?
M: (blushing again) I really don’t know. It’s never come up that I’m aware of.
And further on in my notes:
W: Do you know many members of the orchestra well?
M: (pausing) Just a few. I’ve met some at parties, receptions, things like that.
W: As a group, do you like musicians?
M: I … well, it’s like anything else; it depends on the individual, some are nice people, some … aren’t so nice.
W: Do you have an active dislike for anyone in the orchestra?
M: No, I really couldn’t say that. No.
W: (leaning forward slightly) What about a particular fondness?
M: (slight pause) I’m pretty busy with my dancing and don’t really spend much time around the orchestra or Symphony Hall. When we’re not at home, Uncle Milos and I move in separate circles.
And so it went. In all, Wolfe kept at it for almost an hour, and each time he asked her about specific relationships, she tightened up. I could tell when he began to lose interest. The questions got sillier, including one about what kind of clothes women orchestra members wear. About the time I was totally exasperated with him, Wolfe shifted in his chair and said, “Miss Radovich, I have another engagement; Mr. Goodwin knows how to reach you, I believe?”
Maria looked puzzled, nodded, then got up and thanked both of us. Wolfe remained seated as I followed her to the front hall, helped her on with her coat, and assured her I would call her no later than tomorrow.
“But I don’t understand; is Mr. Wolfe going to help or not?” she asked.
“I’ve known him for years, but I don’t understand him either, Miss Radovich. It’s hell living in the same house with someone who thinks he’s an eccentric genius. All I can promise is that I’ll call by tomorrow with some kind of news.” I opened the door for her and watched her walk down our front steps for the second time that day. When I got back to the office, Wolfe was scowling.
“She’s withholding something, of course,” he said.
I nodded. “She was too slow in answering a few times.”
“She’s trying to protect someone,” he said. “Someone she thinks might have written those notes. But she doesn’t want to believe it.”
“No argument here,” I said.
“Your impression?” Wolfe asked. Over the years, he has convinced himself that I’m an expert on women, and I’ve tried my best to maintain the image. “Seems responsible and levelheaded, despite the nervousness,” I said. “And certainly attractive. She probably has a man. I thought you would get into that a little more with her, but maybe you’ve lost your touch. Could be she’s having an affair with someone in the orchestra, which raises all sorts of interesting possibilities.”
Wolfe winced. “Talk to her. Take her dancing. Find out whom she’s shielding.” Having shown he was still capable of giving a direct order, he lifted his bulk out of the chair and headed for the elevator and his afternoon appointment with the orchids.
4
THE THREE OF US SAT in the office with coffee and brandy, Wolfe and I at our desks and Lon in the red leather chair. Fritz had made good on his promise of a meal to remember: the beef tournedos had never been so good, and the blueberry tart got passed around the table twice. Dinner conversation had ranged from the role of the Palestinians in the Middle East to the future of American cities and the effectiveness of wage-price controls.
Lon passed a hand over his dark slicked-back hair and smiled. “As usual, I’ve had a splendid evening here, and if anything, the brandy has improved since the last time I had the honor of sampling it. But I know you well enough to realize this isn’t strictly social. And tonight, I’m even more curious than in the past, because of your recent … inactivity.”
“Mr. Cohen, we’ve been able to help each other on numerous occasions,” Wolfe said between sips of coffee. “I’ll repeat a question I’ve asked before: On balance, are we substantially even?”
Lon threw up a hand and laughed. “No complaints. None. As I’ve said in the past, I’m running ahead on the deal. If I’ve got an answer that can help in any way, it’s yours.”
Wolfe nodded. “For reasons I can’t divulge now—and which indeed I may never be able to reveal—I need information on the operations and personnel of the New York Symphony Orchestra. Based on my experience with the scope of yo
ur knowledge on a variety of subjects, I’m confident you can supply this information.”
Lon grinned and took another sip of Remisier. He was being flattered, none too subtly, by the best, and fattest, detective in New York and probably the world, and he didn’t mind it a bit.
“I didn’t realize you had an interest in orchestral music,” he said, scratching his chin. “Well, I guess I know a fair amount about what goes on over at Symphony Hall. And if I don’t, we’ve got a music critic with more pipelines than OPEC. Shoot.”
Wolfe rang for beer and readjusted himself. “From what little I’ve learned about the orchestra, it appears that some tensions exist among its principals, both the performers and the management. Do you know this to be the case?”
“That’s a delicate way of putting it,” Lon said. “The truth is that the Symphony’s been a jungle for several years. There was a string of weak music directors, none of them able to control the orchestra. Then they brought this guy Stevens over from England a couple years ago, and he has a reputation as one tough cookie. But if anything, the situation seems to have gotten worse.”
“Is all the bickering a manifestation of artistic temperaments?” Wolfe asked. He had never thought much of highbrow music or the people who made it.
“That’s part of it of course,” Lon said. “But there’s a lot more. For one thing, Charlie Meyerhoff, the managing director, has always resented Jason Remmers—feels he’s a dilettante with no real knowledge of music who has his position simply because of wealth and social power.”
“Mr. Remmers is the Symphony’s board chairman, I believe?”
“Right, he’s from the old beer family—that beer,” Lon said, pointing to the bottles on Wolfe’s desk. “Only he’s never been much interested in the beer business, which disappointed his father. Henry Remmers must be close to eighty now, and still has active control of the firm. But Jason, who’s about fifty, married society, and his wife has always been big for the arts. She’s been in her glory the last few years. Actually, Jason’s done a pretty fair job as chairman. It’s a nonpaying post, and a big part of the role is fund-raising. He’s an outgoing guy, damn popular around town, and he seems to know how to coax money out of the mattresses, because the orchestra’s deficit has been cut way down.”
“And he is also responsible for Mr. Stevens’s move from London?” Wolfe asked.
“Absolutely. As I said, Stevens has a reputation for being tough, a real hard-nose. The Symphony had suffered from a lack of leadership and discipline, or so our music critic felt compelled to write every other Sunday.”
“But Mr. Stevens hasn’t been the answer?” Wolfe asked.
“Not really,” Lon said, pausing for another sip of brandy. “I don’t follow the Symphony like I do the Knicks, but I know there’s been plenty of offstage backbiting. Both Meyerhoff and David Hirsch, the associate conductor, have been plenty open about their feelings concerning Stevens. They apparently feel—again, this is our music critic talking—that his Prussian approach hasn’t worked. Oh, the orchestra has more discipline now, but at the expense of spirit. They’re all so damned terrified of Stevens, or so the story goes, that the quality of the playing has fallen off. Now, I’ll concede that Meyerhoff and Hirsch both have a hatchet they want to hone: Meyerhoff resents Remmers, and so probably would have criticized anyone he picked. And Hirsch wanted the job himself, from what I’ve heard, but doesn’t have the ability to handle it.”
“Is this manner of tension and infighting usual in an orchestra?” Wolfe asked as I refilled Lon’s snifter and my own.
“I suppose so, to a degree,” Lon answered. “Hirsch didn’t get along with the last music director either, and what little I know about Meyerhoff tells me he’s not exactly Mr. Sunshine. That artistic temperament you mention is justification for all kinds of behavior in the theater and music world. But the fact remains that Stevens, whatever his musical abilities, has not pulled the orchestra together the way Remmers hoped he would.”
Wolfe made a face, probably envisioning wild-eyed musicians swearing at one another and throwing tantrums. He continued questioning Lon, asking about the personnel and mechanics and operation of the Symphony. Lon will always say he doesn’t know much about a given subject, but invariably he turns out to be a two-legged encyclopedia on any topic you throw out. The Lon Cohen I know best seems most at home holding a pair and betting the pot, and his knowledge of the orchestra surprised even me. I could see that Wolfe was careful not to appear overly interested in Stevens, but he kept circling back to him.
Finally, at a quarter to one, Lon stretched his arms and allowed as how he had to be bright-eyed for an early-morning meeting with the publisher. “I’d kill to know what you’re up to,” he said, grinning at Wolfe, “but I know you aren’t going to open up, so I’ll just hope for the first call if something breaks. And if nothing does, I’ve still had the kind of evening that makes me forget we’re in the midst of one of the most violent cities in the world.” Lon lifted his empty glass to Wolfe and rose.
“Mr. Cohen, I appreciate your patience, and I thank you for dining with us,” Wolfe said. “One more favor, if you will: Can Mr. Goodwin get access to your back files on the orchestra?”
“Consider it done,” Lon said. “Archie, call before you come, and I’ll clear it with our morgue.” I went with Lon to the door, saw him out, and bolted it for the night, returning to the office, where Wolfe was reclining in his chair, eyes closed and fingers interlaced over his stomach.
“Okay,” I said, returning to my desk, “I retract several recent comments; you really do still know how to work. But where are we? What have we got? All we really know is—”
“Archie!” It was well short of a bellow, but it stopped me. “Your notebook. Instructions.”
5
BECAUSE I FUNCTION BEST ON at least eight hours’ sleep, it was nine-thirty when I rolled out and showered, and almost ten by the time I got to the kitchen. Fritz had my copy of the Times propped up on the rack at the small table where I eat, and a steaming pot of coffee was ready, along with wheatcakes and bacon. I nodded to him and attacked the paper, but I could feel his eyes as I read and sipped the coffee. I finally looked up.
“Archie, how was last night?” he asked, kneading his hands. “Was the food all right? Did everything go well?”
“The tournedos were out of this world, your best work. Mr. Cohen praised them at least three times. He said it was the finest meal he’d had in years.”
“Archie …” Fritz’s dark eyes implored. “You know what I am asking you. Is he working again?”
I started in on the wheatcakes before answering. “It’s possible. Even probable. I have some instructions, but I’ll never be able to concentrate on them unless I can eat in peace.” Fritz reddened and quickly turned away to begin working on lunch.
In fact, I did have instructions, but they were slender. Wolfe had said last night he would take the case, but only with the proviso (his word) that Maria Radovich deliver her uncle to the house for a conversation. At that point, I had accused him of trying to dodge work by setting up an impossible requirement, but he insisted that he had to see the potential victim. “Only Mr. Stevens is likely to give us an accurate accounting of who his enemies might be, at least those within the orchestra,” Wolfe had said. “It is almost surely a nest of eccentrics, and no one knows them better than he. That his niece can’t—or won’t—be of much help has become obvious.” I was also to go through the Gazette files on Stevens and his previous orchestral jobs and find any other information the clips might contain.
It was ten-thirty when I went to the office, opened the morning mail, and tried to call Maria with the mixed news that Wolfe would take the case—if she could deliver Uncle Milos to West Thirty-fifth Street. No answer. She was probably at a dance rehearsal, and Stevens was in his office at Symphony Hall, I supposed. I then called Lon and had better luck. He was through with his meeting and said to come on over.
“I’m still
sated from last night,” Lon said when I got to his office on the twentieth floor. “Please send my regards again to Fritz. Now for business: our librarian knows you’re coming down to go through some clips. You can’t take anything out of the morgue—house rules. But there’s a photocopying machine right there. And, Archie, if something big is about to happen at the Symphony, don’t forget your friends.”
Ten minutes later, I was set up in the corner of a high-ceilinged dingy room with a stack of envelopes labeled “NY Symphony,” one fat envelope per year, plus another, thinner envelope that read: “Stevens, Milan, NY Symph. Conduc, 1975-date.”
There wasn’t much in the clips that we hadn’t already learned from Maria or Lon, but I was interested in the biography of Stevens that ran just after his appointment. It called him a “Yugoslav by birth” and gave his original name. It was mostly basic material: marriage and divorce, previous positions, awards, and a brief mention that his niece would be living with him in New York. The few direct quotes were general ones where he said things like “The New York Symphony is one of the world’s great orchestras” and “I’m overwhelmed by the appointment.” I made a photocopy of the biography, along with one of a particularly negative concert review the Gazette critic had done last year calling Stevens “unimaginative in his selections of music, uninspired in his leadership, and unimpressive at the podium.”
Wolfe was at his desk reading and drinking beer when I walked in at five minutes to one. “There’s not a lot to report,” I said, replying to his questioning glance. “I’ve been to the Gazette and have some clips on Stevens.” I laid them on his blotter. “Nothing exciting, except that their biography includes his given name, which must have eluded at least a few of their nine hundred thousand readers.”
Wolfe wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of a scowl. He spread the photocopies on his desk and began reading. After two minutes, he looked up. “Has he agreed to come?”
Murder in E Minor Page 3
