“Beats me. As I said before, he’s a genius, and he doesn’t usually share his thought processes with me. I assume you were aware that Gerald Milner and Maria Radovich were serious about each other?”
“Yes, I knew that,” she said, looking down and smoothing her gown over her lap. “I had only met him once, in the lounge at Symphony Hall, I think it was. Now that you mention it, Milan did bring up his name once or twice, and it was obvious that he wasn’t overly fond of him. He seemed like a nice young man, though, and I was shocked about … what has happened.”
“Can you remember specifically what Stevens said about him?”
“Oh, it was something like ‘I don’t know how Maria could be interested in him.’ Like the Remmers thing, it was just a passing comment, he didn’t go on about it. When I said I thought he was nice, Milan changed the subject.”
She paused and frowned. “Maybe you already know this, but Maria has never been, well, friendly to me. Oh, I understand why. Milan was a father to her, and I suppose she would be naturally hostile to any woman he became attracted to. About Maria—I’ve tried to call her several times since … that night, but there’s always no answer. I’d like to do anything I can to help her, if she’ll let me. Do you know where she is?”
“I think she’s staying with some friends,” I said. “If I see her, I’ll tell her you’ve been trying to reach her. You mentioned Milan Stevens being fond of you: Did you plan to get married?”
“You ask direct questions, don’t you? I suppose that’s understandable in your line of work,” she said with a tired smile. “Once was enough for me, Archie. I wouldn’t call my marriage perfect, but my husband was a good man, and a generous provider.” Her eyes moved around the room as if to underscore the statement. “We had no children, neither of us wanted any, and since I’ve been a widow, six years now, I find I like the freedom of living alone. I have lots of friends, lots of activities. And besides, Milan never asked me. I’m not sure he fancied the idea of getting married again either.”
“If I’m not mistaken, you went out with Charles Meyerhoff at one time, too,” I said.
Lucinda laughed. “You know a lot, don’t you? Oh, Charles and I went to some parties and plays at one time a few years back, but it was just a thing of convenience for both of us. Nothing serious. I just like to be around people in the arts. I come from a theatrical family myself, Archie. My father was an actor back in Europe, and we lived all over the Continent when I was young. I did a little acting myself for a while, but it was only amateur things. I didn’t inherit his talent, I guess. Are you sure I can’t mix you a drink?”
“Thanks again, but I’d better be on my way,” I said. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken. One more thing: Can you recall where you were Wednesday night, say, from about seven-thirty to nine?”
Another tired smile. “You have to ask that, of course, Archie. I realize you have your orders. Yes, I can remember what I did Wednesday. I knew Milan would be home working that night—he planned his schedule far in advance, even down to which nights he stayed home working on scores, and he didn’t deviate from that schedule. We had been invited to a small late supper up in the Eighties—by some people named Morrison whom I’ve known for many years. Lawrence Morrison’s in the phone directory, on East Eighty-second, if you want to check. I went alone. I think I got there about eight-thirty.”
“And before that?” I asked.
“Well, at about seven I realized that I had forgotten to get flowers to take to them, so I left here early, about seven-thirty, I think, and caught a cab in front. We must have tried six or seven florists before I finally found one that stays open late. And I did end up getting a very nice arrangement.”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember who the florist was, would you?” I asked with a grin that was intended to show that the questions were friendly.
She fluttered a hand. “Oh, it was someplace down on Lexington, I think. Honestly, Archie, I don’t remember because I stopped at so many. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t see that there was anything else to talk about, so I got up to go and thanked her again. “I do wish I could be more help,” she said, standing next to me and looking up with those stunning blue eyes. “While we were sitting, I didn’t realize how tall you were.”
There was probably a snappy retort to that line, but I couldn’t think of it, so I said thanks one last time and eased my way toward the door with Lucinda at my side. She made me promise to keep her posted on developments and we said good-bye—with a handshake. Maybe it’s my ego, but I had the feeling she would have preferred a more intimate parting gesture.
On the way down in the elevator and walking along Park Avenue, I tried to analyze her, and then decided I’d dump the whole thing on Wolfe, since he’s the one people hire. I ruled against stopping to see Lily, and instead ducked into a drugstore with a pay phone. Jason Remmers answered himself after two rings, and I told him about Wolfe’s plan for tomorrow.
“Sunday afternoon, eh?” he said after I’d laid it out. “Well, there isn’t a concert, so that’s no problem. I’ll start calling them right now; I’m sure they’re all in town, so that shouldn’t give us any trouble. If I ask them to see Wolfe, they’ll do it. What time?”
On Sundays, Wolfe doesn’t have the usual routine, so I told him four o’clock would be fine, and Remmers said he’d call back later to let me know the outcome. Back outside, the snow had covered the sidewalk and was still falling, but I needed the air to clear away the memories of Luanda’s perfume. The walk would get me home just about the time Wolfe came down from the plant rooms.
16
IN FACT, IT WAS FIVE minutes after six when I walked into the office, and Wolfe was already behind his desk. He scowled and set his book down, knowing that I wouldn’t let him get any reading done until I’d reported.
“Number one,” I said, “Remmers is arranging to have the trio here tomorrow afternoon. Because you didn’t give me a time, I said four. Number two, I’ve just been to see Lucinda the Hyphen, and her alibi for Wednesday night isn’t any better than Remmers’s. I assume you want it verbatim?”
Wolfe nodded and rang for beer.
“Okay, but before I start, a few observations about her,” I said, “since you trust my instincts when it comes to attractive women. And she is an attractive woman, for sure. It’s easy to see why Stevens went for her. I’m not ready to give any odds one way or the other on whether she did it, but she didn’t seem terribly unhappy. No black veils or anything like that. And she made it clear that she wouldn’t mind if we got to know each other better.”
“Indeed? Did you find out the extent of her friendship with Mr. Stevens?”
“You said to use intelligence guided by experience, didn’t you?” With that, I gave him the whole thing, word for word, although I was interrupted by two phone calls. The first was from Remmers, who reported that he had reached all three men, and they would come tomorrow at four, although he said they weren’t very enthusiastic about it, particularly Hirsch and Meyerhoff. About five minutes later, Saul called and said he and Fred were ready to report. I checked with Wolfe, who said they should come after dinner. Between the calls and Wolfe’s questions, it took well over an hour, so that when I was through, it was time to go into the dining room.
The shock of being back at work must have worn off, because I was beginning to appreciate Fritz again. His scallops were magnificent that night, and when Wolfe complimented him, his smile wrapped all the way around his face.
Saul and Fred timed it perfectly. We were just finishing our first cup of coffee in the office when the bell rang. I opened the door, helped them off with their coats, and told Saul that Lucinda had proposed to me. After they were settled in the office with coffee of their own, Saul cleared his throat and began.
“The building is fairly typical for the neighborhood,” he said. “Nine stories, brick. I talked my way in as a Buildings Department inspector making a periodic check. I’ve got a card that loo
ks good, and it usually works.” I held back a smile and saw that Wolfe was doing the same; the left corner of his mouth was twitching.
“As to access,” Saul continued, “there’s the front door and the lobby, of course—Archie, you’ve seen those. In the lobby is one passenger elevator, automatic. Also, they have a service elevator and an interior fire stairway in the rear of the building. Both of them open on a small service lobby on the ground floor. That lobby”—Saul paused for a sip of coffee—“opens out onto a gangway that separates the building from the one next door. The only exit from the gangway is an iron gate seven feet high that fronts on Seventy-sixth Street to the left of the building as you face it. The gate has a panic bar on the inside, so anyone can get out by pushing it, but from the sidewalk, you can’t get in without a key. The doorman on duty told me he lets tradesmen in through that gate, but only after checking with tenants to make sure they’re expecting someone. He’s got a key to the gate attached to his belt by a chain, and when he goes off duty, he turns it over to the doorman or hallman on the next shift.”
“Is it possible to go from the gangway through to the next street?” Wolfe asked.
“Not without a ladder or wings. There’s a brick wall about ten feet high that separates the property from the building behind it. I’d scratch that possibility. As to staffing, this place isn’t as well covered as the big castles over on Park. There is a hallman on duty around the clock—that’s three of them in all, in eight-hour shifts. The one you mentioned, Tom Hubbard, works four to midnight weekdays. But the building has a doorman only from six in the morning to seven at night—two men each work six-and-a-half-hour shifts. If anyone needs a taxi at any other time, the hallman has to go out and flag it.”
“Anything else?” Wolfe asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Saul said apologetically. “As it was, I was stretching my inspector’s role. With what’s happened in that building, the super and everybody else there was jumpy. I had to try to make this seem like a routine check of the exits, the stairways, what-have-you. Luckily, there hadn’t been a real inspector around for a while.”
“Satisfactory,” Wolfe said. Saul Panzer can do no wrong as far as he’s concerned, and he knew Saul always feels bad if he doesn’t deliver what he thinks is one hundred and ten percent. Now it was Fred’s turn, and we all shifted our attention to him.
“Well,” he began in his deliberate way, “I followed your instructions, Mr. Wolfe. I didn’t try to see Hubbard at all, but I did walk along the block and talk to several doormen. These guys have to all know each other, but the first couple weren’t much help. One thought I was a reporter, and he wanted money before he’d tell me anything about Hubbard—I didn’t know if there was anything to tell, so I said no thanks. And another one clammed up when I finally admitted to him that I was a private cop. But then something happened that was sort of interesting.” Fred stopped, wrinkled his brow, and looked at Wolfe as if asking permission to go on. Wolfe dipped his head a fraction of an inch.
“Actually, it started with a coincidence,” Fred said. “A doorman about six doors east of the murder building on the other side of the street is an Irishman—named Callaway. He’s a talkative guy, and I struck up a conversation with him, it wasn’t hard. Well, it turns out that our people come from the same county in Ireland, and possibly even the same town. Anyway, you’re not interested in that, I know, but it’s what got us started. Okay, after we’d been chewing for a while out in front of his building, I asked Callaway if this wasn’t the block where the big murder happened. He says yes, and I begin asking, just in conversation, you know, about the building and if he knew anybody who worked over there. He tells me he doesn’t think a lot of the way the place is run, that it’s not well maintained, that it’s got poor security, what with a doorman for only part of the time, while his building has one all night. It wasn’t hard to shift the conversation to this guy Hubbard, and Callaway says he knows him. What’s more, he says he hasn’t got much use for him. I asked why, and he said something like ‘I don’t respect a man who chases after prostitutes, even when he’s working.’
“I wanted to know what he meant, of course, and he told me that everybody along the block, all the doormen, knew about how Hubbard had a thing for hookers, particularly redheaded ones. I asked how he knew, and he said that sometimes the girls would hang around the building in the evening, trying to make a score with him.”
Wolfe made a face. “Do these women normally infest that neighborhood?”
Fred shifted in his chair. “Not really—at least as far as I know. Their usual territory is farther south, close to the big hotels. But I think a few work their way north sometimes.”
Saul sensed Fred’s discomfort and cut in. “Yeah, he’s right, Mr. Wolfe. The action is in midtown, but some of the streetwalkers do go up farther, particularly if they can get a regular customer. If the word got around about this character, it’s possible a few might drift by to see if they could develop some business.”
Wolfe scowled again. He had once described prostitution as an unimaginative vocation peopled by unhappy practitioners catering to unpleasant clients. When I asked how he knew, he glared at me and went right on talking. Whether you agree with Wolfe or not, New York has plenty of practitioners, particularly of the streetwalker variety. For anyone who spends much time outside, they seem easier to find than a taxi, and they come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages, including some pathetically young ones.
“I was sort of interested in the hooker angle,” Fred went on, “so I asked Callaway if by chance there’d been any of them around Stevens’s building the night of the murder. That made him a little suspicious; when he asked why I wanted to know, I told him I was a private cop working on another case in the neighborhood, and I said I had just wandered down this block out of curiosity to see the murder site. He seemed to buy that. He said that on Wednesday night there’d been a big party in his building, and he was so busy opening car doors and ushering people in that he didn’t notice what was going on down the block. He said the first he knew something had happened was when a police car parked in front of Stevens’s building later in the evening. Around eleven o’clock, he thought.”
As Fred went on, Wolfe seemed to lose interest. I could always tell; his eyes traveled around the room—to the bookshelves or the clock or the globe. By the time Fred had finished, he’d already rung for beer, and I took orders from the others. Fred had beer also, and when Saul asked for cognac, I decided that sounded good for me, too.
We resettled with our drinks, and Wolfe began asking Fred about the block: the relative position of Callaway’s building to the murder site, the width of the street, the size of the trees. He’s grasping, I thought, trying to show us he’s at work, but he really doesn’t know where the hell to go. I was ready to cut in when he stretched both arms out in front of him, palms down on the desk. It’s not a gesture he uses often, but the few times I’d seen it before, it preceded an order.
“Saul. Fred. You can say no to this if you want to. Indeed, I won’t blame you if you do; were our positions reversed, I would almost certainly refuse the assignment myself, out of both helplessness and distaste.” He inhaled and let the air back out slowly. “I want to know if a prostitute, redheaded or otherwise, called on Mr. Hubbard when he was at work Wednesday. And if so, I want her brought here.” He leaned back and took a sip of beer.
“Lovin’ babe,” Saul said just above a whisper. “There must be five thousand of ’em in New York.” He took a sip of cognac and turned to look at Fred, who was staring down into his beer glass. Then they looked at each other, and Saul turned to Wolfe. “I think we should get started right away,” he said. “I’ve got a few ideas on how we should proceed, and I’d like to talk them over with Fred.” They each took one last swallow and got up to leave. To be hospitable, I walked them to the front door and wished them luck. There was no joking this time, only handshakes.
Wolfe had just poured his second beer and was gloweri
ng at the foam when I plunked down at my desk. “Helplessness and distaste, huh? A cute little phrase, but you knew damn well that they wouldn’t turn you down, even on an insane go-around like this.”
“Archie, I won’t argue the merits of the assignment, but I’ve never known Saul or Fred to be intimidated by what you call long odds, and besides, the thorough hunter can ill afford to overlook any thicket, however dense.”
“So now we’ve gone from fishing to hunting, have we? Okay,” I said with a shrug, “you’re paying them, and for Saul alone, that’s a hundred-and-a-half a day now, plus expenses.”
Wolfe returned the shrug and opened a seed catalog. “Are the germination records current?”
That’s another of his conversation-ending lines, so I pulled out the records, which were in fact not current, and began working, but only after I’d treated myself to a cognac refill.
17
IT SNOWED ALL MORNING, SO that by noon the plows were whining and scraping outside on Thirty-fifth Street. I’d slept late, and by the time I got myself together and went down to the kitchen, it was ten-fifteen. Wolfe wasn’t around; on Sundays, he abandons his weekly schedule, usually staying in his room until at least noon. Fritz was ready for me with a pot of coffee, the Sunday Times, and sausage links and wheatcakes ready to go on the griddle. He asked how the case was coming, but I told him to try me later, maybe tomorrow. This was the fourth day since the murder, and already the Times had bumped Milan Stevens off the front page. They did have a long page-three story, though; it said that a spokesman in the D.A.’s office hoped that Gerald Milner’s trial could begin “in the next few weeks.” Further down in the story was a mention that the Stevens memorial service would be held Monday afternoon.
After polishing off six wheatcakes and five sausage links, I refilled my coffee mug and went to the office. My desk calendar had just the single notation for Sunday: I had penciled in “three from Symph.” at four P.M. Turning to the phone, I dialed Jason Remmers’s number, and for the second time in as many days, he answered himself. He was only too happy to provide what I asked for: thumbnail biographies of the three who were coming to see us today. I took down his comments in shorthand and thanked him for his trouble, then did my own editing. I typed out brief summaries of each of the three, and by single-spacing was able to fit it all on one sheet, which I put in the center of the blotter on Wolfe’s desk. Here’s how it read:
Murder in E Minor Page 12
