Nothing seemed to have been disturbed anywhere. A jewelry box on the dressing table in Maria’s room was stuffed with things that any self-respecting thief would have taken, and gold cufflinks lay on top of the dresser in her uncle’s bedroom.
The apartment had about eight rooms, and I was just finishing my quick tour of them when the doorbell rang. It was two plainclothes detectives and a uniformed cop. I recognized one of the dicks, a guy named Henderson I had met once or twice. He was Central Casting’s idea of what a detective should look like: tall, wavy-haired, square-jawed, and wearing a white trench coat with hardware all over it. But he was also solid, and had a good reputation in the department.
He gave a tight-lipped smile when he saw me. ‘I'll be damned, they said a guy named Goodwin had phoned in, but I figured it couldn’t be you, what with Wolfe on the shelf these days.”
I smiled back. “Goes to show you can’t take anything for granted anymore. Have you talked to the hallman yet?”
“I left Mills with him and came straight up. What’s the story?”
“The dead man is Milan Stevens, the conductor of the Symphony. He’s in there,” I said. “This is his niece, Maria Radovich.”
Henderson was momentarily jolted by the news, but quickly recovered and switched on the standard we’re-here-to-help manner for Maria, who stood. “Please sit down, Miss Radovich. You can stay right here for now, but we’ll want to talk to you later, just for a short time.”
I followed Henderson into the study, where his partner and the uniformed man were bending over the body.
“Christ, this guy was big stuff, wasn’t he?” Henderson whispered to me. “This may get Cramer and the commissioner out of bed.”
“Looks like he’s been carved up pretty good,” the other detective said. “Apparently with that letter opener.”
Henderson nodded. “Ed, phone for the M.E.,” he said to the uniform. “Use a handkerchief. Okay, Goodwin, fill me in. How’d you happen to be here?”
I knew I would have to repeat the story several times before dawn, but I gave it all to him, and he made a few notes as I talked.
“And you say Wolfe has those letters to Stevens at home?” he asked when I was done.
I nodded, and Henderson looked around the library. The impact this case would have in the department and around town was just beginning to hit him, and he was measuring his moves. “Goodwin, you’d better come downtown with us later. Right now, I want to talk to her.”
Henderson led Maria into the living room while I stayed and watched the other two combing the study and taking notes. A while later the medical examiner came puffing in with his little black bag, followed by a police photographer. “At least three, maybe four wounds,” the doctor said after a quick check. “I’d say for starters that he’s been dead more than three hours.” My watch read eleven-thirty-five, which didn’t make things very rosy for Maria’s friend Jerry Milner.
The next few hours are best summarized. Maria had to look at the body once more to satisfy the police, and I went downtown, where my least-favorite member of New York’s finest, one Lieutenant George Rowcliff of Homicide, was on duty. He decided to let Inspector Cramer and the commissioner keep snoring so that he could personally handle my interrogation. Over the years, Rowcliff and I have had a relationship that ranges from distaste to outright hatred, but that night made all our previous encounters seem amiable by comparison. Rowcliff has been burned by Wolfe a few times, and he’d never pass a chance to get us into the stew pot. Around headquarters, it was said that he had two goals: to lift Wolfe’s and my licenses, and to make captain—in that order. So far he’d struck out at both, although he came pretty close to the former on the Orrie Cather episode.
“Well, well, well, Goodwin,” he said when we were alone in a dismal office. “I’ve been telling the inspector for months that we hadn’t heard the last of you and that fat egomaniac. He was sure Wolfe had retired, but I knew there was no way you guys could resist publicity forever. And now you’re really in it—up to your necks.”
“Egomaniac? Very good, Rowcliff. You’ve learned a new word. Mr. Wolfe will be so proud of you. I wasn’t aware you knew any with more than two syllables. But can you spell it?”
“Listen, you half-assed smartmouth, this time I’m going to …” Rowcliff’s eyes were bulging, which always happens when he loses his temper, and he had to stop talking because if he’d kept on, the stuttering would have started, too. He took a few breaths, then started in with the questioning. It went on, with an occasional assist from a few of his lackeys, for more than two hours. Rowcliff could be very thorough when he put his mind to it. In fact, he asked some of the questions over and over, but I always answered precisely the same way.
“Let me understand this,” he said for about the fourth time. “You’re telling me that the Radovich woman came to you because Stevens had known Wolfe years ago in Europe?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Lieutenant. That’s what she told me.”
“And that you have three notes in your safe at home that threatened Stevens’s life, notes that you didn’t see fit to turn over to the police at the time?”
“That’s what I’ve said.”
“And that Miss Radovich hired you to find out who wrote those notes? What a fine job you great masterminds did on this. You realize, Goodwin, that if you’d come to us with this, Milan Stevens would be alive?”
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and admired the peeling paint on the ceiling. “Lieutenant, it’s brought back memories, chatting with you tonight, but I get the feeling that you’re running out of questions. Can’t we get a stenographer in here so I can make a statement?”
“Dammit, Goodwin, I’ll decide when to call the steno!” Rowcliff screamed. “I could have you locked up as an accessory.”
He couldn’t, and we both knew it, but he needed to let off steam, and I needed a pillow and mattress. I could tell I was tired when Rowcliff started stuttering and it didn’t even matter to me. I assumed that by this time Milner had been found and was somewhere in the building, and I was surprised that Rowcliff hadn’t abandoned me to work on him.
Finally, around two-fifteen, he decided I was no longer worth the effort, and a steno came in for my statement. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way home in a patrol car with a sergeant named Foley who didn’t like Rowcliff any more than I did, and who had let me hitch a ride north with him. It was three o’clock when I fell into bed and set the alarm for four hours later.
7
NO MATTER HOW OFTEN I see Wolfe propped up in bed, I’m never quite prepared for the sight. Maybe it’s his bright yellow pajamas, or the silk coverlet, or the uncertainty as to where he ends and the bed begins, but in that setting he always looks larger than usual, which is saying a lot. I got to his room just after eight, right behind Fritz and his tray with orange juice, hot chocolate, peaches with cream, link sausage, shirred eggs, and whole-wheat toast with currant jam. My alarm clock had kicked me out of bed at seven, and after a shave and shower, I went down to the kitchen for a quick breakfast of my own so I could fill Wolfe in before his morning visit to the plants. He forbids business talk in the dining room, but on rare occasions tolerates it with his breakfast.
“Last night was every bit as delightful as I thought it would be,” I said as he started in on the peaches. “Who do you suppose was on duty at Twenty-first Street when I got there?”
“Not Lieutenant Rowcliff?” Wolfe made a face, as he always does when he pronounces the name. He’s never forgiven Rowcliff for the time years ago when he searched the brownstone.
“You got it. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, but then, I’m getting ahead of myself. I assume you want it all?”
Wolfe nodded. That meant a verbatim report on the evening, which was no strain. On past occasions, I’ve repeated hours of word-for-word dialogue to him, and I’d match myself against a tape recorder.
I started with the call to Maria at the dance studio and covered all
the rest, right through to Rowcliff’s final rantings and my ride home. Wolfe interrupted three or four times with questions, but otherwise concentrated on his tray. As I finished, he drained the last of his chocolate and scowled. “I suppose the police have Mr. Milner by now. What do the papers say?” He gestured to the copies of the Times and Daily News that Fritz had brought up. I’d read my own copies already.
“There’s nothing about Stevens in these editions,” I said. “They probably got the story too late. But the afternoons figure to play it big, and you can be sure Lon will be calling soon. Ditto the reporters for the other papers and the TV stations. And I’ve got a sawbuck that says Cramer punches our doorbell before noon.”
“Your money is safe,” Wolfe said. “If Mr. Milner is the murderer, Mr. Cramer’s army of men will likely have no trouble establishing it. If that’s the case, we’ll owe Miss Radovich a refund, along with our condolences. Let us for the moment turn our back on the obvious, however. What is your judgment of her?”
“You mean, could she have done it? Absolutely not. Two hundred to one against, at least. She doted on the old man, and besides, she apparently was at the dance studio all afternoon and evening. But that’s one that can be checked easily enough.”
“Very well,” Wolfe said. “I concur that we will almost surely hear from both Mr. Cohen and Mr. Cramer this morning, one with questions, the other with harangues.” He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“Is that it?” I asked after a half-minute of silence. “Someone you’ve known for years was killed last night, not more than four miles from here, and I get the feeling that I’m keeping you awake. I’m impressed with the way you’re able to conceal your fury.”
He looked at me with wide eyes. “Archie, outrage is among your more churlish emotions. If I may contradict you, Mr. Stevens is someone I have not known for years. Further—and I realize this is troubling you—I reject summarily any suggestion that Mr. Stevens’s death could have been prevented by our turning those notes over to the police. As you’ve heard me say before, if one person is determined to kill another, it is virtually impossible to prevent the act, short of destroying the potential murderer himself. And whoever dispatched Milan Stevens had in all likelihood made his or her decision long before last night.”
Wolfe then opened the Times, which signaled the end of the discussion. For the second time in two days, I wanted to slam a door behind me, but decided it was wasted energy. I walked down one flight to the office and found my desk covered with messages that Fritz had taken. One was from Lon, of course, and others from the Times, Daily News, Post, and three television stations. I dialed a number, and Lon answered on the first ring.
“All right, Archie, this one’s really got us spinning. What gives with Wolfe and Stevens? Naturally, we haven’t told the police about your wanting those clips, but I suppose I could always call Cramer and …”
“Threats will get you nowhere with a tough gumshoe,” I said. “Besides, you could no more snitch on a friend than you could quit the paper for a job in TV. What’ve you heard about the Stevens thing?”
“What have I heard? Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? Nero Wolfe invites me to dinner, ostensibly for a social evening, although I know better. I get pumped about the Symphony in general and Milan Stevens in particular. Then you come to the paper to see our files on the man and the orchestra, and within twelve hours he’s killed. And for frosting, I have to read in the final edition of this morning’s Daily News that Stevens had known Nero Wolfe a million years ago in Yugoslavia, and that Stevens’s niece had come to you for help regarding some threatening letters he got. And then”—Lon paused for breath—“our leader storms into my office waving the News story and screaming ‘I thought you were supposed to be the one who’s in thick with Wolfe and that sidekick of his, what’s-his-name!’”
“You’re making up the ‘what’s-his-name’ part,” I said, trying to sound offended. “I haven’t seen the News article yet; it wasn’t in the edition we got delivered. But if they quoted Wolfe or me, they made it up.” I pawed through the phone messages on my desk. “Let’s see, the News did call here, at six-fifty this morning, and Fritz answered, but I haven’t returned their call. You’re the only member of the fourth estate that I’ve talked to.”
“No, they didn’t quote you, and apparently they couldn’t get to the niece, either. We think that cretin Rowcliff fed them the stuff about Wolfe, and also said you were there when the body was discovered. Give me something, for God’s sake. We need a strong lead for our street edition, and besides, my image is hurting with the man who signs my paychecks.”
“What does the News say about a suspect?” I asked.
“They’re questioning a guy,” Lon answered. “Named Milner. A violinist with the Symphony. The hallman says he was the last visitor Stevens had before his body was found.”
“Look, I probably can’t give you much more than Rowcliff shoveled to the News,” I said. “You can print the fact that Maria Radovich is our client and that we’re investigating the case. And if you like, I can give you a pretty good description of the apartment and the way it looked when I first saw Stevens lying there. Other than that, there’s not much we can say without an okay from our client. Speaking of which, I’ve got to call her.”
“You probably won’t get through,” Lon said. “One of our guys has been trying to reach her for the last hour, and the line’s busy. Phone’s likely off the hook.”
Lon took down my description of the apartment, and a few other tidbits I felt I could safely toss in, and I promised him I wouldn’t return any other calls from the media for at least an hour.
Lon was right about Maria. I called several times, and the line was always busy. I also kept my word and didn’t talk to reporters who phoned during the next hour. Fritz answered on the kitchen extension and gave them all the same message: I was out, and so was Wolfe. When I finally did get around to calling people back, nobody got more than bare bones from me.
After the flurry of calls both in and out, I had some time to open the mail and work briefly on the germination records, although Fritz ran in every five minutes to pump me about the case or ask if I thought Wolfe was getting enough to eat.
The phone hadn’t rung for a while, and I’d just gotten another busy signal from Maria’s number when I heard the hum of the elevator. At eleven sharp, Wolfe came in with Ondontoglossums for the vase, but because we’d talked earlier, he didn’t bother to ask how I’d slept, which was fine with me—I was still irked about his boredom act upstairs.
After he got settled in his chair and rang for beer, I swiveled to face him. “The late edition of the Daily News has the murder; Rowcliff talked to them, Lon says, and we’re both mentioned. I gave Lon a little color, but just sneezed at the other papers and the television stations. And I’ve been trying to call Maria for the last hour, but the line’s busy.”
Fritz came in with two bottles of beer and a glass on a tray. As he set it down in front of Wolfe, the doorbell rang.
It was eleven-oh-six—I made a point of checking my watch, for the record. Wolfe and I looked at each other, and I went to the door, but I knew before I got there who’d be on the other side of the one-way glass. Still, it was comforting when I actually saw the florid, angry face of one Inspector Lionel T. Cramer of Homicide South.
“Come in, Inspector,” I said, grinning. “Believe it or not, we were talking about you just this morning, trying to recall when you visited us last. Mr. Wolfe and I have both felt terribly neglected …”
I stopped because he ignored me, bolting through to the office with his coat still on. He headed straight for the red leather chair and sat, pulling out a cigar and jamming it unlit into his mouth.
“So help me God, I never thought I’d be in this room again,” he snarled at Wolfe. “I honestly thought I’d seen the last of you and this place.”
“It has been a long time,” Wolfe said. “I seem to recall that on your la
st visit, you complimented me on what a good working room this is, and you also gave the globe a spin. Will you join me for a beer?”
“No, goddammit, I won’t,” Cramer said, glancing at the big Gouchard globe in the corner. He looked about the same as the last time I’d seen him a couple of years before, his hair just as gray and rumpled and maybe with another inch added to an already thick midsection. But he still moved fast for a big man and his eyes hadn’t lost any of their sharpness. Despite all their battles through the years, he and Wolfe held a grudging respect for each other.
“Mr. Cramer represents the best of the law officer,” Wolfe once told me in a rare burst of praise. “It’s true that he’s impulsive and has a quick temper, but beyond that—and more important—he’s honest to a fault, brave, dedicated, and fiercely proud of the New York Police Department. He hates malingerers and incompetents within its ranks and lives with the constant fear that he may someday be responsible for the conviction of an innocent person.” Enough of praise. Right now, Cramer was exhibiting the temper segment of his personality.
“You know why I’ve come,” he snarled at Wolfe, chewing on his stogie. “I should have known better than to believe that you and Goodwin had really hung it up. It’s been too peaceful the last year or two, and now we’ve got one of the biggest murders in this town’s history, and I’m back here again.
“I really thought the Cather thing finished you,” Cramer went on, leaning forward in his chair. “I never asked you how it felt to have a killer working for—”
“Mr. Cramer!” Wolfe spat the words out and brought the palm of his hand down hard on the desk, causing both Cramer and me to jump. “Have I ever taken you to task for the malfeasants who have been employed by the police—some of them in Homicide? Did I ask you how it felt when one of your own lieutenants murdered his wife and children and then shot himself to death? Archie”—he turned to me—“how many operatives have we employed through the years?”
Murder in E Minor Page 5
