“Four or five, on any regular basis, and another fifteen or twenty on occasions, I suppose. I could look it up.”
Wolfe shook his head. “These men, with the single exception of Mr. Cather, consistently conducted themselves with an admirable degree of honor, dignity, and courage, and one was himself killed while in my employ,” Wolfe said. He was referring to Johnny Keems, who was run down by a car on a case years ago. “Am I now to be held accountable for the actions of one among all those I have paid through the years? Really, Mr. Cramer.” Wolfe was laying it on thick.
“Okay, don’t get so testy,” Cramer said, his face beet red. “That’s ancient history anyway. What I’m really here about—and you know it—is the Milan Stevens murder.”
“We were expecting you,” Wolfe said. “And you have our attention.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad of that,” Cramer said. “You know that I could lift your licenses again for the withholding of evidence from the police. I’ve come for those notes. If you’d turned them over to us right away instead of playing cute, Stevens would still be alive.”
“Come now, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said, turning a palm over. “Let us assume for a moment that we had given you those notes after Miss Radovich had left them with me. Can you honestly say they would have caused you to begin a full-scale search for a potential murderer? Or, as I suspect is more likely, would you have dismissed them as the work of a crackpot? And even if you had undertaken a hunt, where would it have ended?”
“At the same place we are now,” said Cramer. “With Gerald Milner in custody.”
“Indeed?” said Wolfe, raising his eyebrows. “Has Mr. Milner been charged with murder?”
“You know damn well he has,” Cramer said, almost shouting. “We picked him up early this morning.”
“Has he confessed?” Wolfe asked.
“No, but he’s rattled to the point where I think he’ll crack sometime today. The hallman in Stevens’s building saw him go up, and we found his prints in the apartment. No question, he’s it. Now, those notes.”
“Certainly. Archie, please get them from the safe and give them to Mr. Cramer. Well, it appears that your case is over very quickly, and I congratulate you. Have you established a motive?”
“Hell, yes,” Cramer said as I handed him an envelope with the notes in it. “We’ve already talked to several orchestra members who heard Stevens screaming at Milner after a rehearsal several weeks ago. It seems that Milner wanted to marry Stevens’s niece, but when the old man found out about it, he was furious, didn’t think Milner was worthy of her. After that, he singled Milner out during rehearsals, chewing him out, and trying to make him look bad in front of everyone.”
“And what does Mr. Milner say about last night?” Wolfe asked.
“He claims Stevens wrote him a note asking him to come to his apartment. Milner says he thought it was to talk about Maria. When he got off the elevator, or so he says, the door to the apartment was open. He called out Stevens’s name, and when there was no answer, he went in and found Stevens lying dead on the floor in the library.
“He claims he panicked,” Cramer said. “His story is that he ran out, not bothering to close the door, and walked the streets for hours, trying to decide what to do. Our men were at his apartment in Queens waiting for him when he got there at about one-thirty.”
Wolfe nodded. “They probably brought him in while Lieutenant Rowcliff was still questioning Mr. Goodwin.”
Cramer spat an obscenity. “And he wonders why he hasn’t made captain. One of the biggest names in town is murdered, and that idiot decides to handle it all by himself. Not that Goodwin doesn’t deserve a two-hour grilling, and more, but the time Rowcliff wasted on him, when he should have been … Aw, the hell with it. Quote me, and I’ll deny I ever said any of that. Anyway, I’m glad this one’s going to be over quick. The heat would’ve been murder, with the mayor kicking the commissioner, the commissioner kicking everybody in the department, and the papers going nuts over it.”
“Again, I congratulate you,” Wolfe said.
“Yeah, thanks. No great help to you, though. Maybe this really will be my last time in this office.” Cramer stood up and looked around.
“I honestly hope not,” Wolfe said. “I always enjoy your visits.”
“That’s more than I can say,” Cramer answered. “Well …” He was staring at the globe, probably deciding whether to spin it again. After a few seconds he shrugged and walked out, the cigar still clenched in his teeth. I followed him to the hall, but he was out the front door before I could open it for him.
“Well?” I said to Wolfe back in the office.
“Mr. Cramer wants very badly to believe he has the murderer,” he said, “but he’s troubled. And he’s far too honest to take the easy way out by sacrificing an innocent person, merely to avoid pressure from his superiors.”
“The notes,” I said.
“Of course.” Wolfe nodded. “They complicate the situation, and Mr. Cramer obviously realizes this. Why would the murderer, be it Mr. Milner or someone else, alert his intended victim with a warning?”
“Maybe they were sent by someone else,” I ventured. “A coincidence. Stevens apparently had plenty of detractors.”
“Pah!” Wolfe waved my suggestion aside. “Without question the same person who wrote the notes also is the murderer. Could you conceive of doing such a thing yourself, if you were planning to destroy someone?”
“Nope,” I said. “Too much effort, and as you said, all it does is make the target more careful.”
“Your reaction is normal,” Wolfe said, laying a hand palm down on his blotter, “and it would be mine as well. But whoever killed Milan Stevens detested him so intensely that the notes were used as additional means of inflicting discomfort. And the murderer was so confident of ultimate success that he—or she—felt this extra measure of sadistic satisfaction outweighed any dangers.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Try again to get Miss Radovich.”
I turned to dial the number while Wolfe picked up his receiver. This time I got rings instead of a busy signal, and a female voice I didn’t recognize answered.
“I’m sorry, but Miss Radovich is resting right now and can’t be disturbed,” she said.
“Can you please tell her it’s Mr. Goodwin?”
“Really, she isn’t—”
“Please, at least tell her and let her decide for herself.”
The woman left the phone. After about a minute, Maria was on the line. “I know you’ve been through hell in the last twelve hours,” I said, “but Mr. Wolfe is anxious to see you. Can you come this afternoon?”
“Yes—I was going to call you. I took sleeping pills, and just now got up. I want badly to see you and talk about Jerry. What time should I come?” she asked in a fuzzy voice.
“Three?” I asked. It was as much a question to Wolfe as to Maria. He nodded, and she said she’d be there. I hung up and turned to say something to him, but his nose was in a book, where it would stay until Fritz announced lunch.
8
AFTER FINISHING LUNCH, I WALKED over to Eighth Avenue and picked up the afternoon papers. Both the Gazette and the Post played the murder as the banner, and each had a big picture of Stevens on the front page. The Gazette story jumped inside to a page that also had articles on Stevens’s career and violence in New York today. There was a mention of Wolfe’s role and pictures of both of us. Most of what I’d fed to Lon was in the main story, along with a diagram of the library, showing the position of Stevens’s body when we found it. Maria wasn’t quoted anywhere, though—the story said she was “in seclusion.”
No mention was made of Gerald Milner in either paper, but each said the police commissioner and the district attorney had scheduled a joint press conference for three o’clock “to announce a major development in the case.” In the meantime, citizens’ groups were making noise, and the head of one had asked in print: “What kind of city is this that not even one of its most pro
minent and highly respected residents is safe in his own home?” The mayor called the murder “a terrible, senseless tragedy,” but said he had complete confidence that the police would move with dispatch to find the murderer.
Wolfe was at his desk reading when I got back. “It’s all over the papers now,” I said, laying them in front of him. “By the way, I think we need to give out new pictures to the press. Yours doesn’t do justice to your graying temples. Mine on the other hand makes me look older than I really—“
“Archie, shut up!”
“Yes, sir. Anyway, the commissioner and the D.A. have called a press conference for three—the same time Maria will be here. It’s sure to be on Milner, after what Cramer told us. Shall I get Lon and ask him to call us when his reporter phones in with the story?”
Wolfe nodded as he opened the papers and began reading. Like almost everyone else, he likes to see his name in print, and he turned quickly to the page with our pictures. He read for a minute, then looked up. “Assuming Mr. Milner is to be charged with murder, will a bail be set?”
“Probably,” I answered, “although it’s likely to be a big one.”
I had expected Maria to be early, so when the doorbell rang at seven minutes to three, I wasn’t surprised. Through the one-way glass, I could see she was alone and wearing sunglasses, despite the overcast day. I opened the door, gave her a sympathetic smile, and helped her off with her coat.
I won’t say Wolfe never rises for a woman, but it doesn’t happen often. That day, though, he was on his feet when Maria entered the office and remained standing until I had parked her in the red leather chair.
“You have our most sincere sympathies,” he said. “I can’t speak to your uncle’s musical prowess, as I have no frame of reference, but I can say that he was a man of dedication, character, and great bravery, and I do not use those words carelessly.”
“Thank you,” Maria said hoarsely. She kept her sunglasses on.
“It goes without saying,” he continued, “that we all, you, me, Mr. Goodwin, want the same thing—the arrest and conviction of your uncle’s killer, whoever that may be. Before we go on, however, one point: Inspector Cramer of Homicide was here earlier, and he suggested that Mr. Goodwin and I were at least indirectly responsible for your uncle’s death because we did not immediately turn those notes over to the police. Do you agree?”
“No—not at all,” Maria said, leaning forward in the chair. “Even if we had gone against his wishes and taken the notes to the police, Uncle Milos wouldn’t have cooperated. He would have said the whole thing was nonsense.”
“I gathered as much from what you said on your earlier visit,” Wolfe said, “but I wanted to establish your confidence in both of us.”
“Absolutely,” Maria said. “When I first came here, I wanted to find out who was writing the notes. This time, I want you to find a murderer, and I suppose now … I’ll be able to afford whatever fee you ask.” She looked down at her hands in her lap and shrugged. “But I know it can’t be Jerry. I’m positive. He’s just not …” The words trailed off.
“Madam,” Wolfe said, “first, do not concern yourself about payment. As I said on your earlier visit, I have a debt of considerable magnitude to your late uncle. Second, when I undertake an investigation, there can be no constraints, no limitations. It may be that Mr. Milner is guilty. If so—”
“No!” Maria said. “Violence is not in his nature.”
“Throughout history, passion has driven otherwise gentle individuals to extreme acts of violence,” Wolfe remarked dryly. “I’m merely trying to establish that however unpleasant the truth may be to you, all pertinent information must eventually reach the police. But because we’re now on the subject of Mr. Milner and because the police consider him a prime suspect, I have questions.”
Maria nodded.
“When you first sat in that chair, it was obvious that your concern over the notes centered at least partially on who had written them. Did you fear Mr. Milner was their author?”
“Mr. Wolfe, I was worried about my uncle.” Maria took off the sunglasses and shifted in the big chair. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“And with good reason, as it turned out,” Wolfe said. “Madam, we must be candid with each other. I know that your uncle and Mr. Milner had argued. Am I correct that you were the cause?”
“Yes. I met Jerry several months ago while I was waiting for my uncle at Symphony Hall. We started seeing each other after that, and …” She gestured as if to explain.
“Was your uncle aware of this friendship?” Wolfe asked.
“No. Uncle Milos never approved of anybody I went out with. And he told me once that musicians made terrible husbands. For a long time—several months—we met secretly. But”—again Maria gestured—“we fell in love, and Jerry said he wanted to marry me.”
“Your response?” Wolfe asked.
“I told him I wanted to marry him, too, but I was afraid of what my uncle would say. Jerry said he would talk to him about it, but I told him I was sure Uncle Milos would be furious and that it might hurt Jerry’s career with the orchestra.”
“But he spoke to your uncle anyway?”
“Yes, about three weeks ago, and it was just as I had expected. I wasn’t there, but Jerry told me later that after a rehearsal, he followed my uncle back to his dressing room, and on the way he told him about us. Uncle Milos became terribly angry, and he shouted at Jerry, right there in the hallway backstage, where a lot of other people heard it.”
“When did you first learn about the incident?” Wolfe asked.
“Jerry called me right after it happened. He said Uncle Milos threatened to dismiss him from the Symphony, and told him that they could easily do without him. Jerry was very upset when he called me. He said he was willing to leave the orchestra if it came to that, but he was still determined we should marry, whether or not my uncle gave his blessing. I told him he shouldn’t do anything to endanger his career, that I would talk to my uncle and see if I could reason with him.
“Uncle Milos came home a little while later, but before I could even begin, he said, ‘I don’t want you to see that Milner again; how could you be interested in such a man? He is beneath you, and he’s only an adequate musician, as well!’ He told me he believed the only reason Jerry was interested in me was that he thought it would improve his position in the orchestra. I said I thought the very opposite was true, that Jerry knew his feelings about me might very well damage him. But Uncle Milos wouldn’t discuss it anymore.”
“Did you pursue the subject later?” Wolfe asked.
“I tried several times in the next few days, but always he refused to talk about Jerry at all. He would walk out of the room when I tried to bring it up.”
The telephone rang, and I turned to answer. It was Lon.
“Archie, our guy called from Centre Street a couple minutes ago, and it was like we figured. They’ve charged Milner with murder. The commissioner and the D.A. spent most of the press conference congratulating each other on the fast work, et cetera. They set bond at a quarter-million. I gotta run.”
“Thank you very much,” I said in a businesslike voice, hanging up and turning back to Wolfe. “That was Mr. Wilson. He called to confirm the details of our earlier discussion and to say the price is two-five-oh.”
Wolfe nodded and addressed Maria. “Madam, I will repeat the question I asked earlier and which you sidestepped: When you first talked to us about the notes, did you not fear that they had been written by Mr. Milner?”
She took a deep breath. “I … suppose so. Jerry was so depressed about what had happened that I was afraid he might have done something foolish, just to scare my uncle. But he could never have killed anyone. He—”
“Yes, I know,” Wolfe said. “You need not further stress your feelings about Mr. Milner. Did you ever mention the notes to him?”
“No,” Maria said. “I saw no reason to … upset him further.”
“I will rep
eat another question I asked on your earlier visit: Was there anyone in the Symphony who might have wanted your uncle dead?”
“I can’t think of anyone. I said before, there are tensions and jealousies, but they always seem to exist in great orchestras. But any murderous hatred—no, not that I was aware of.”
Wolfe pursed his lips. “Miss Radovich, were you and your uncle satisfied with your apartment building?”
“He was never very interested in where we lived,” Maria said. “When we first came to New York, we stayed for several months in a hotel on Central Park South that is popular with music people. It wasn’t a bad place, but Uncle Milos wanted something larger, so we found this building. He bought the apartment right away after we’d seen it. I didn’t think it was as nice as we should have had—on his earnings, he could have afforded much better. But it satisfied him. Mr. Remmers tried to convince him to move into a bigger, more expensive building. He said the conductor of the New York Symphony merited something better, but my uncle is—was—very stubborn. And he was very much taken with the library in this apartment. He said it was a nice place to work. And then that’s where …” Maria stopped and looked down, resting her head on one hand.
“Did you find the security adequate?” Wolfe asked.
Maria nodded. “I suppose so, although again, Mr. Remmers said we should be in a building with better protection. But there was always a hallman on duty, and in the daytime, a doorman too.”
“Is someone in your apartment during the day?”
“We have a maid who comes Mondays through Fridays, from about ten in the morning until three,” Maria said.
“Do you have a cook as well?” Wolfe asked.
“No, we usually eat out, although sometimes I make something for the two of us.”
Wolfe grimaced. The thought of anyone not having a cook always disturbs him. “I have another appointment,” he said, glancing at the wall clock, “but before we conclude, you should know that Mr. Milner has been charged with murder.”
Murder in E Minor Page 6
