“With Mr. Stevens dead, will Mr. Hirsch become the music director?” Wolfe asked.
Remmers shook his head vigorously. “Only on an interim basis. We’re making the formal announcement of his appointment this afternoon. I’ve already talked to Dave, and he seems resigned to never being the Symphony’s chief conductor. Down deep, I think he’s aware of his limitations, and he knows he could never handle the job in the long run. I suspect he realizes that any potential he has for growth in the music world is as a composer rather than a conductor.
“In fact, part of my peacemaking work in the last few weeks was trying to persuade Stevens to give the premiere of Hirsch’s symphony. And I think I just about talked him into it.”
Wolfe considered the wall clock, then looked back at Remmers. “And what of Mr. Sommers?”
“Ah yes, another case of bitterness,” he said. “Don Sommers performed a flute solo a few weeks ago that got so-so reviews, and not long afterward, in an interview in the Times, Stevens said one of his biggest problems was the lackadaisical attitude of a number of the principal players. Sommers chose to interpret this as a direct slap at him, although in the paper Stevens was quoted as criticizing ‘several soloists.’ Anyway, the two of them got into a shouting session backstage a day or two later, and since then, they hadn’t been on speaking terms.”
Wolfe frowned. “It would seem that the orchestra exists on a continuum of screaming matches and angry silences.”
Remmers threw back his head and laughed. “Based on what I’ve told you, that’s a natural enough conclusion. Actually, though, things aren’t nearly that chaotic most of the time. But then, you asked specifically about those people who had problems with Milan Stevens, so you’re hearing about the turmoil.”
“What I started out asking for,” Wolfe corrected, “were your suggestions as to who might have killed Mr. Stevens. Do you think any of the three you named—or anyone else within the orchestra—is a likely candidate?”
“A few days ago, I would have laughed off that question. But a few days ago, I’d also have scoffed at anyone who said that our music director would be stabbed to death in his own home. To be totally candid, I wouldn’t rule out any of them, although I wouldn’t presume to point at one as a more likely suspect than the other two. As far as the rest of the orchestra … no, these three and Milner were the only ones I’m aware of who’ve had particularly bitter experiences with Stevens.”
Wolfe scowled. “Let’s return to you, sir. Because you were instrumental in the hiring of Mr. Stevens, has some of the criticism of his performance been directed to you?”
“Indeed it has,” Remmers said. “One paper’s music critic has said that the blame for what he called the ‘Stevens debacle’ should rest with me. You see, at the time we were looking for a new music director, the music-policy committee was terribly split on candidates for the job. Meyerhoff is head of that committee, but they were going nowhere, so I stepped in with Stevens’s name. I got support for him from committee members, and finally Meyerhoff gave in too. In recent months, some of the same people on the committee who applauded that selection began saying I made a first-class blunder.”
“What has your response been to this criticism?”
“I’m pretty thick-skinned, Mr. Wolfe,” he said, coming on again with that engaging grin that you see in society-page photographs. “I’ve been involved in a number of civic projects through the years, and I’ve taken a lot of shots from a lot of people because of various decisions of mine. All of which has helped me grow a tough hide. The only thing that’s bothered me about the flap over Stevens is the realization I’ve come to in the last six months: Stevens wasn’t working out. I had made a bum call, and I was prepared to rectify it.”
“Were you planning to fire him?” Wolfe asked.
“In effect. His contract was up for renewal, and I was going before the board with the suggestion that we seek a new music director.”
“Was Mr. Stevens aware of this?”
“I hadn’t talked to him about it, although I would have in the next few weeks,” Remmers said. “I think he probably suspected it might be coming, though.”
“Would you have taken this as a personal failure?” Wolfe asked.
Remmers shrugged his lean shoulders. “Not really. Again, I’m used to criticism—you can’t have a position like this one without being a target. And considering the problems the Symphony had with its last few conductors, Stevens really wasn’t that much of a disaster.”
“Mr. Remmers, if I may shift to another subject,” Wolfe said, “do you know a woman named Lucinda Forrester-Moore?”
“I suppose you could say I know her,” Remmers said. “I’ve met her at a number of parties, benefits, that sort of thing, through the years. Her late husband, Baxter Moore, and I both went to Harvard, and we ran into each other at alumni functions; he was in the shipping business. I guess I know why you’re asking about her: She and Milan Stevens had become an item in the last year or so.”
“Did you perceive theirs as a serious relationship?” Wolfe asked.
“I couldn’t really say. They were together a good deal, of course, but I could never figure out whether it was romantic or just a handy pairing. Lucinda loves to be in the middle of things, and it’s pretty damn prestigious to have the Symphony maestro on your arm when you sweep into the theater or a dinner party. But then, since her husband’s death six, seven years ago, she’s had a history of attracting well-known men—it’s sort of her trademark.”
“Did Mr. Stevens ever mention her to you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Remmers said. “However, there was no particular reason why he should. Our own relationship wasn’t such that personal matters were discussed. In fact, I can’t picture Milan Stevens discussing his personal life with anybody.”
Wolfe drew in half the oxygen in the room, then exhaled slowly. “Just two more questions, Mr. Remmers. First, if I want to see the three men you mentioned, could you arrange it?”
“Yes, I think so. You’d want to see them here, of course. They might not like it, particularly Charlie Meyerhoff, but they’ll come, either together or separately, as you wish. If you let me know when you want them …”
“Mr. Goodwin will call you with a precise time,” Wolfe said. “And we’ll want to see them all at once. The other question, sir: Where were you on Wednesday night between seven-thirty and eight-thirty?”
Remmers flashed that grin again. It was easy to see him in the role of fund-raiser. “I knew that was coming. Nineteen nights out of twenty, I’d have a drum-tight alibi—a dinner, a reception, the opera, maybe the Symphony itself. But I had an upset stomach Wednesday, so I begged off a dinner invitation at the home of some friends, and my wife went alone. I spent the early part of the evening reading, and about a quarter to eight, I went out for a walk—I needed the fresh air to help settle me. I walked around a few blocks in our neighborhood—we live on Beekman Place—and I was back home by nine or so. Unfortunate timing, isn’t it?”
“Did you see anyone?” Wolfe asked.
“Just the doorman in our building, and I suppose the hallman, too. The doorman and I chatted briefly both when I left and came back. Otherwise, I saw at least a dozen people walking their dogs, but nobody I knew.”
“Very well,” Wolfe said, looking at the wall clock again. “I know your schedule is a busy one, and I appreciate your taking the time to come here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wolfe,” Remmers said, rising. He started to reach out a hand, then remembered where he was and dipped his head. I followed him out to the front hall and helped him on with the cashmere, then watched him bound down the steps to a parked limousine that looked to be twice the length of the car that had waited for Cramer earlier.
When I got back to the office, Fritz was on his way out, having just deposited a glass and two bottles of beer in front of Wolfe. “Hah!” I said. “You didn’t want him to see you drinking the family brew, did you? Afraid he’d think you were
buttering him up?”
“Nonsense,” Wolfe shot back as he poured beer and watched the foam settle. “It merely would have distracted from our conversation. Mr. Remmers undoubtedly would have felt some comment was necessary, which in turn would have elicited a response from me, and so on. I did not invite him here to indulge in small talk.”
“You didn’t invite him at all, he invited himself,” I retorted, but his face was already hidden by an open book, which always happens when I get in the last word.
13
I’M SURE FRITZ’S POACHED SALMON with mousseline d’homard was superb, but for the third straight day I was eating without tasting. I envy Wolfe’s facility for totally shutting out business whenever he crosses the sill into the dining room; that afternoon he put away three big helpings of the salmon, all the while holding forth on how future historians might view the presidency of one Richard M. Nixon. I threw in a few comments here and there, but on balance I was hardly a good conversational partner. As strong as my own feelings are about the man from San Clemente, I couldn’t get my mind off Maria Radovich and Jason Remmers and Gerald Milner, the last of whom was at that very moment sitting in the South Room eating the same food we were.
It seemed as if lunch lasted six hours, but finally we were back in the office with coffee, which meant business was fair game again. “Look,” I said, swiveling in my chair to face Wolfe, “how long are we going to keep our houseguest? I can’t see that he’s doing us any good here.”
Wolfe sipped his coffee and set the cup down deliberately. “I agree that the time has come to turn Mr. Milner loose. My principal reason for housing him was to give Mr. Cohen and his newspaper an advantage over their competition on the story. They now have that advantage, so he should be told that he is free to go.”
What Wolfe was actually saying was that I should suggest to Milner that he pack. Heaven forbid that Wolfe himself have to tell a guest to leave. I was about to make a remark when the doorbell rang.
“Probably Cramer,” I said, “back again to try talking us off the case. Are you available?”
He grunted. “Yes, I’ll see him.”
But it wasn’t the inspector’s mug I saw when I looked through the one-way panel. I wouldn’t have wanted to try guessing her age, although her well-coiffed white hair told me she’d already been around awhile when I first saw the light of day back in Ohio. Her skin looked as good as a teenager’s, though, and if pressed for a single adjective, I would have called her elegant. She was wearing a black coat with a white fur collar that had to have set her back a few bills. Whoever she was, I concluded she was no immediate threat, so I slid off the chain lock.
“Yes?” I said, swinging open the door.
“I would like to see Mr. Wolfe,” she said. “I realize I don’t have an appointment, but I know he is at home most of the time.” Her voice seemed tinged with French, although as Wolfe has pointed out a number of times, I’m out of my league when it comes to languages and accents.
“I don’t know if he can be disturbed right now,” I said, stepping back and letting her in so I could close the door against the November gusts. “I’ll ask, though. Who should I say is calling?”
“My name is Alexandra Adjari,” she said.
It registered, of course, and I turned toward the open door to the office. When I got there, Wolfe was on his feet, looking past me into the hall with an expression I’d never seen him wear. I was trying to read it when she eased past me. “Hello, Nero, it’s been a long time,” she said, holding out a gloved hand.
“Alexandra,” he answered, shaking hands across the desk. “I recognized your voice instantly.”
“Even though you hadn’t heard it in heaven knows how many years?” she said with a laugh. A nice laugh. “I don’t believe you, Nero, but thank you for saying it. You’re looking well.”
Wolfe gestured at himself. “As you can see, I’ve added layers through the years—insulation against life’s myriad assaults.” He turned toward me. “This is Mr. Goodwin.”
She took my hand with a firm grasp and smiled. “I assumed so when I saw him at the door. I’ve read a good deal about both of you through the years. I see the New York Times frequently.”
Wolfe dipped his head a full inch, which is for him a sweeping bow. “Please,” he said, indicating the red leather chair. I took her coat and hung it up, and when I got back, he was asking if she’d eaten.
“Yes, thank you, I had lunch on the plane coming over. I’ve only just been in New York an hour or so. I started making arrangements to come as soon as I heard about Milos. As you can imagine, it’s big news in London, too.”
Wolfe nodded, and at his suggestion, Alexandra agreed to have coffee. After Fritz had served her and she’d taken a first sip, he readjusted himself and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “You’ve come for the memorial services?”
“Partly,” she said, “but also to be with Maria Radovich. I’m very fond of her, and I thought she might need some comforting, having no relatives other than Milos. I tried to call her after I checked in at the Churchill, but there was no answer at their apartment.”
“Mr. Goodwin knows her whereabouts,” Wolfe said, “and can tell you how to reach her. I can assure you she’s in the care of friendly and sympathetic persons. As far as memorial arrangements, details are not yet firm.”
Alexandra waved her hand. “That’s not my main concern,” she said. “Let the dead bury their dead. I know that must sound callous, considering that I was married to the man for seventeen years, but as I think you know, it was a marriage in name only after the first three years or so. We were separated the rest of the time, and we were divorced …”—she paused to think—“… more years ago than I care to remember. I don’t think I’ve even seen Milos more than four or five times in all the years since then. I can still remember what you told me after I decided to marry him—can you?”
Wolfe nodded and took another sip of coffee.
She went on. “You said we wouldn’t last five years together, and that I should reconsider. In the early months after the wedding, I laughed to myself about that, thinking how wrong you were. But by the end of that first year, I knew what a mistake we’d made, how totally unsuited we were to each other. When I was with him constantly over a long period of time, I found that Milos was hard to love, harder still to like. Fortunately, his music took him away so frequently that we stayed together longer than we would have otherwise. Even at that, the marriage was an almost total disaster. The only good things I can think of were that we didn’t have any children and that because of Milos, I came to know Maria.”
She paused for some coffee. “Long after we divorced, Milos came to London as conductor of the Philharmonia, and I met him at a reception. We were polite to each other, and he introduced me to Maria, who was then about thirteen. I liked her right away, and she seemed fond of me, too. I know Milos tried to discourage her from being friendly with me, at least at first, but Maria has her own mind, and we grew close over the next several years. Since she moved here with Milos, we write to each other only occasionally, but I still think of her often. It’s because of Maria that I came. Now that I’m here, though, I find another purpose: In my room at the hotel was a copy of today’s New York Gazette, and it said that you’re investigating Milos’s murder, that you’re not satisfied the right man has been arrested. Is that correct?”
“It is,” Wolfe said.
“The newspaper also said you’re acting on Maria’s behalf.”
“Also true,” Wolfe said. “I’m sure she’ll tell you as much when you meet.”
“I have never met her beau, of course, but I suppose it’s natural she would think him innocent. You must also be convinced of his innocence.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I am,” Wolfe said, “although I can offer no other candidate at the present time.”
“I’m sure your reasons are good. I know Maria has limited funds of her own, at least until the estate i
s settled, but I have no such constraint. Nero, I want to employ you to find Milos’s murderer, and you may set whatever fee you wish.”
I looked at Wolfe. We already had a client, albeit one whose assets would hardly qualify her as a preferred customer at Metropolitan Trust. But in the last few hours, two heavy hitters had stepped up and asked to join the team. I waited for his answer, although I knew what it would be.
“I appreciate the offer, but—”
“I know, you’re wondering why I would do this for a man for whom I had no feelings all these years. I suppose it’s because of Maria, and because he was my husband once. And perhaps because of my own conscience. I was as much the cause of the marriage’s failure as he.”
“What I started to say,” Wolfe replied, “was that I appreciate the offer, but even Miss Radovich is only a token client. As you well know, I owe Milos Stefanovic my life.”
She nodded and looked thoughtful. “Yes, that day in Cetinje, the police, the blockade …”
“I was a consummate fool,” Wolfe said. “I made every possible mistake, but Milos appeared from somewhere with a rifle and a pistol. He must have killed three of them.”
“Five, he said, when he told me the story later. But I seem to recall that you saved him at least once also, Nero.”
Wolfe turned a palm over. “I suppose one could say we all saved each other on numerous occasions. But nothing as marked as what happened that afternoon. It is a debt, and I dislike being in debt.”
“You’ve changed very little,” Alexandra said, smiling again. “Even then, you hated owing anything to anyone. Well, if you won’t take my money, you certainly have my moral support, for what that’s worth.”
Murder in E Minor Page 10
