“Wait a minute,” Cramer cut in again. “This thing has more holes than the Mets’ infield. How did your hypothetical killer know when to go to the apartment and find Stevens home? And how did he avoid running into Milner?”
“I’ll try to fill in the holes, sir, if you’ll allow me. Everyone in this room probably knew of Milan Stevens’s schedule, at least to a degree. His practice was to spend Wednesday nights at home alone going over the scores for upcoming performances. And it was hardly a secret that Miss Radovich had dance rehearsals every Wednesday night, too. Also, the killer knew precisely when Gerald Milner would arrive, because it was the killer who wrote to him on Stevens’s own notepaper, asking that he come to the apartment at eight-fifteen.”
“This is ridiculous!” Hirsch said. “If Milan was already dead when Milner got there, who told the hallman to let him come up?”
Wolfe frowned and took a sip of beer. “This will be far simpler without interruptions. The murderer wrote the note—Stevens’s notepaper would be easily accessible to anyone in this room—asking that Milner go to his apartment. Then, the prostitute was contracted for, undoubtedly in advance. She lured Hubbard from the building at a prearranged time, probably about seven-forty-five, and the murderer went up unnoticed, was let into the apartment by Stevens, and killed him.
“The murderer didn’t leave immediately, but rather stayed in the apartment with the corpse, waiting for Mr. Milner’s arrival. When he got there promptly at eight-fifteen, Mr. Hubbard was back at his station in the lobby: The prostitute had been given specific instructions that he must be returned to his desk by no later than five after eight. Milner asked for Stevens, Hubbard dialed the number, and the murderer picked up the phone, probably mumbling something like ‘Have him come up’—just a few words, not enough for Hubbard to be suspicious of the voice.
“The murderer, who knew the building well, then moved quickly, leaving the front door ajar to allow entry for Mr. Milner and his fingerprints. The killer then left by the back door of the apartment, taking the service elevator or the back stairway down, then exiting via the rear door and the gangway that runs alongside the building. There’s an iron gate to the street that’s locked from the outside, but anyone on the inside can open it merely by pushing the panic bar. So the murderer disappeared into the darkness, and Mr. Milner wandered into the apartment calling Mr. Stevens’s name, exactly as had been intended.
“The police have the rest of Mr. Milner’s story,” Wolfe said, looking at Cramer. “He discovered the body and, realizing he’d be the prime suspect, fled in alarm, leaving the apartment as he found it—except for his fingerprints—and leaving the front door open. His running away was a bonus for the real murderer, who probably thought Milner would call the police when he found the body. That he didn’t made things look even worse for him than they would have.
“In any case, Mr. Milner’s presence in the apartment had been definitely established. And the murderer further knew that because of the nature of Hubbard’s absence from the lobby, he, Hubbard, would never volunteer that he had been gone for a few minutes. Hubbard could be expected to state—as he did—that he was on duty all evening and that Milner was the only person who had asked to see Stevens.”
“Fascinating but farfetched,” Cramer said. “For one thing, who’s the hooker? And what does Hubbard say about all this?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Wolfe said, touching the buzzer under his desk. Everyone turned to the door, which in a few seconds was opened by Saul Panzer. Saul stepped aside and ushered an ashen-faced Tom Hubbard into the office.
“Mr. Hubbard,” Wolfe said, “we haven’t been introduced. My name is Nero Wolfe, and I think you’ve met Inspector Cramer.” Before either Cramer or Hubbard could speak, Fred Durkin squeezed into the already crowded room with Mindy Ross in tow.
“Everyone is here now,” Wolfe said. “Inspector, this is the young woman I was telling you about earlier. Miss Ross, do you recognize this man?” Wolfe nodded toward Hubbard.
“Yeah, that’s him,” she muttered sullenly, “the one I was telling you about.”
“What did you tell me about him? Please repeat it.”
“He’s the one who … the car. Do I have to—”
“This is perverse!” Hirsch shouted. “Must we sit through this? What’s it proving?”
“Shut up!” Cramer bellowed. “Let her go on.”
“Miss Ross, how did you happen to approach this particular man?” Wolfe asked.
“I got money to go there and talk to him and, you know, take him to a car.”
“Is the person who gave you that money in this room?”
“Yeah, him.” She pointed at Charles Meyerhoff.
“I’m not going to stay here and take this!” Meyerhoff barked, standing up, but Purley Stebbins laid a beefy hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.
“This is a disgrace,” Meyerhoff yelled, “being accused by a whore! I didn’t kill Milan Stevens, and I’m not saying any more.”
“Technically, that’s true,” Wolfe conceded, draining his glass and dabbing his lips with a handkerchief.
“What’re you saying?” Cramer put in. “You heard the girl.”
Wolfe held up a hand. “As I stated earlier, the truth was crying out to me, but I ignored it. First, the same phrase was used by two people at different times. ‘It was just a thing of convenience,’ they each said. Strange that both would use precisely the same words, unless of course they had rehearsed what they would say, anticipating questions. And why would there be questions, other than in an investigation?
“But as I said, I refused to read the sign. Then, through the efforts of an associate in Europe, I learned that Mr. Stevens some fifteen years ago had fired a young man from the Munich orchestra when he was its conductor, and a few days later the musician drove his car off a cliff, killing himself.
“The dead man’s name was Willy Wald, and I ignored yet another sign until Mr. Goodwin by chance used the word ‘translate’ in conversation, waking me from my slumber. My German-English dictionary translates ‘wald’ to ‘woodland’ or ‘forest.’ Mr. Wald was the younger brother of Lucinda Forrester-Moore. Correct, madam?”
Lucinda had a trace of a smile on her face as she looked levelly at Wolfe. “I’d always wanted to meet you,” she said in a low voice. “I’d heard so much about you.”
“Just so. Yesterday afternoon, through friends in the press, I found that you are a German native, having immigrated to the United States in nineteen sixty-four, the year after your brother’s death. You moved to New York, and a few years later married Mr. Moore, taking his name, but also maintaining an English approximation of your own surname.”
“It now appears that was a mistake,” she said, still smiling.
“Perhaps,” Wolfe replied with a shrug, “although my ego wants to believe that I eventually would have found the answer on the duplicated phrase alone. By the way, I congratulate you on losing almost all traces of accent in thirteen years.”
“Thank you,” she said, dipping her head slightly.
“Also, your asking Mr. Goodwin back a second time was a tactical error,” Wolfe said. “You overplayed your hand. It seemed obvious from his report of that meeting that you were trying to muddy the waters by focusing suspicion on Mr. Hirsch, and to a lesser degree Mr. Sommers—perhaps as a contingency in the event that Mr. Milner found a way to prove his innocence.” Wolfe turned to Meyerhoff. “However, sir, you may be interested to know that she did not attempt to throw any suspicion upon you, despite an opening Mr. Goodwin gave her to do so.
“When I confronted Mr. Hirsch with the charge that he had made implied verbal death threats to Milan Stevens, his reaction was such that I all but eliminated him from consideration. Patently, talking in that manner was not his style.”
Wolfe turned to Cramer, who had moved behind Lucinda, while Purley Stebbins remained at Meyerhoffs right shoulder. “I said that I was convinced Stevens’s murder was the
result of a deep-seated and intense hatred. And such hatred could indeed have been sparked by the death of a loved one—in this case, a brother.
“Lucinda Forrester left Europe shortly after her brother’s death, bitter and resentful toward Milan Stevens but probably resigned to never having the opportunity for revenge. Imagine how she must have felt, years later, when she learned he was moving to the very city in which she lived. Coincidentally, she as a recent widow had been spending time with another member of the Symphony, Mr. Meyerhoff. However, she shifted her attentions to Mr. Stevens soon after his arrival here. Even then, she probably had begun to lay plans for his murder, although I doubt if she shared those plans with Mr. Meyerhoff at that time, and Mr. Stevens, who likely had never met the sister of Willy Wald in the Munich years, was totally unsuspecting. As for Mr. Meyerhoff, he grew increasingly unhappy over Milan Stevens’s dictatorial ways, which steadily increased his power within the orchestra—at Meyerhoffs expense. Further, the managing director had grown deeply attached to Mrs. Forrester-Moore.
“This combination of emotions on the part of Meyerhoff was perfect for her purposes. She had for months, no doubt, been contemplating a way to avenge her brother’s death, which she had always felt was directly attributable to Stevens. When the maestro and Milner had their public confrontation and word of it got back to her—possibly from Stevens himself—she had an unexpected opportunity. But as plans took form in her mind, she realized the need for an accomplice, and she approached Meyerhoff. You’ll have to ask him whether he initially resisted, but in any event she was able to enlist him and they set to work.
“The notes to Stevens at home were her first step because, as I said earlier, even murder was not sufficient satisfaction for her; she wanted his suffering to be psychological as well. It turned out to be a pivotal decision, because the notes were what in effect brought Mr. Goodwin and me into the case—a case that at the time was not yet a capital one.
“Next, the pair set about studying the security in the building where Stevens lived. This was Mr. Meyerhoffs assignment, and he no doubt soon discovered that the doorman went off duty at seven in the evening, which meant that only one person, the hallman, stood between them and undetected entry. Next, Meyerhoff began inquiring about the habits of the hallman, Mr. Hubbard here. He may well have talked to the same person that Mr. Durkin did to find out that Mr. Hubbard had a certain weakness, one that would be skillfully exploited, as we have seen.” Wolfe leaned back, took a monumental breath, and poured his second bottle of beer as Hubbard stood near the door, looking at the floor and fidgeting.
“It also fell to Mr. Meyerhoff to locate a woman, which he did, specifying a time when she was to call on Mr. Hubbard—a time after the doorman went off duty but safely in advance of Gerald Milner’s arrival. To assure that this part of the operation went smoothly, Meyerhoff accompanied Miss Ross to the door of the apartment building and also supplied the automobile in which she and Mr. Hubbard had their appointment. He probably watched them from a place of concealment, making sure that Hubbard was well occupied while Mrs. Forrester-Moore entered the building.
“After she got inside, the rest was simple. She was familiar with the place, having been there many times to visit Stevens. She took the elevator up and rang the bell, and Stevens, on learning who it was, opened the door. They went back to the library, where he’d been working, and at some point when his back was turned, the former Miss Wald, doubtless wearing gloves, plunged the letter opener into his back. The first stab was enough to stagger him, and it was then easy for her, despite her size, to run the blade in a few more times to finish the job. Miss Radovich said she thought the letter opener was her uncle’s, so it’s possible Mrs. Forrester-Moore took it on an earlier visit to the apartment, with just such a use in mind. Anyway, after killing Stevens, she stayed in the apartment and waited for the call from the lobby announcing Milner. When it came, she probably muttered those few words I mentioned earlier, or a similar phrase. It would have been simple for her, a sometime actress, to approximate Stevens’s voice for just a short sentence. After talking to the hallman on the speaker, she had ample time to flee via the back way while Milner was going up in the elevator.”
Cramer started to say something to Lucinda, but she spoke first: “Mr. Wolfe, I’ve very stupidly underrated you. I really—”
“Lucinda, you don’t have to talk to him!” Meyerhoff shouted. “He’s just fishing. We don’t have to stay here and subject ourselves to this slander!”
“Charles, it’s done,” she said. “Over. Mr. Wolfe, I started to say that despite your reputation, I didn’t really think I was in jeopardy, particularly since you didn’t even take the trouble to see me yourself until tonight; you sent Archie instead. Not that I minded, you understand.” She turned to me with a sad smile, and for just an instant I wished Wolfe had made a mistake. “The only thing you were wrong about was my never having met Milan in Munich. I did meet him once—at my brother’s funeral, but he didn’t recognize me when we became acquainted here years later; my appearance had changed a good deal.” Her hand went reflexively to her hair. “I was glad he didn’t remember me, though, because almost from the beginning, I had made up my mind, as you said, to … take revenge. I’m not sorry I did it, either. But I am sorry about Mr. Milner. And I’m sorry about you, too, Charles,” she said, turning to Meyerhoff, “although your dislike for Milan had grown to be almost as great as mine, I think.”
Lucinda shifted to Maria Radovich. “You despise me, as you should. All I can tell you is your uncle had a side you probably never saw: He could be cold, cruel, hateful. He was that way to my brother—and to other members of the Munich orchestra, too. He killed Willy as surely as if he’d been steering the car. He humiliated him in front of the entire orchestra, called him names, derided him. You can see how he treated someone you cared for very much,” she said, nodding toward Milner. She sank back into her chair and looked at Wolfe.
“Madam, since you mentioned Mr. Goodwin, I should point out that his eyes and ears are every bit the equal of my own, and in some situations, considerably better. Also, I must tell you that your little speech rings hollow, particularly your solicitude toward Miss Radovich. I, too, know that the man you call Milan Stevens had a dark side, and may indeed have been capable of driving another person to his death. Let us even assume he was the direct cause of your brother’s fatal crash.”
Wolfe turned a hand over. “So, powered by revenge, you plotted and carried out his murder. Should that not have been enough for you? Indeed, an argument could be made for this act of retribution in the minds of many self-respecting citizens, if not in the eyes of the law. But you had to go further, conspiring to frame an innocent person. The easy assumption would be that you did this to avoid prosecution. I think not; rather, it was your hatred for Mr. Stevens, which was so overriding that you also sought to savage the life of the person he held dearest, his niece, by destroying the man she loved. And the irony is that this man”—he gestured toward Milner—“is of virtually the same station and age as your brother was at the time of his death. Madam, hatred has become your handmaiden.” Wolfe scowled and turned to Cramer.
“In case you’re wondering, Inspector, you’ll find that neither Mr. Meyerhoff nor Mrs. Forrester-Moore has a strong alibi for last Wednesday night. He said he was working late in his office in Symphony Hall, but claimed the guard didn’t see him when he left. And she was at a dinner party that evening, or at least told Mr. Goodwin she was. But at the time of the murder, she was supposedly in a cab trying to find an open florist shop. However, I suppose you’ll be checking all these things thoroughly.”
Cramer glowered at Wolfe, but didn’t say anything. There really wasn’t a hell of a lot he could say. After all, for the last two hours he and Purley Stebbins had watched their work being done for them.
21
AFTER BREAKFAST THURSDAY, I walked to a newsstand on Eighth Avenue and picked up the early edition of the Gazette. The banner read SURPRISE I
N STEVENS CASE, and there was a column of type of the previous night’s events in the brownstone, plus pictures of Wolfe and me. I made a mental note to thank Lon for using the newer mug shots that I’d sent him.
It had been well after midnight when things settled down at home and I finally got around to calling him. He’d griped about the hour, but he had his exclusive, and the timing was perfect for the Gazette, an evening paper. Now the A.M.’S would be scrambling to catch up, but they were dead until their first editions for Friday hit the streets late Thursday night.
I got back to the house and laid the paper on Wolfe’s desk blotter along with his mail just as the elevator came down from the plant rooms. “Good morning, Archie, nice to see the sun today, isn’t it?” he said, positioning himself in his custom-made chair. I let him go through the mail and have a look at the paper before I turned to face him.
“By the time we got everybody out of here last night and I got through filling in Lon on the phone, it was too damn late to ask any questions, but I’ve got a few,” I said.
“Oh?” Wolfe raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah. For instance, why weren’t you suspicious about Alexandra Adjari? You didn’t seem concerned when she went back to London right in the middle of this mess, but how did you know she hadn’t come to New York earlier than she had said? She could have been here for several days before she came to see us, which would have made her a suspect.”
“That point occurred to me as well, and one morning I called Mr. Cohen from the plant rooms. Through his connections with the customs people, he determined that Miss Adjari did indeed arrive in New York on the day she came to see us.”
“Sneaking around behind my back again,” I said. “Speaking of Lon, I suppose he’s the ‘contacts in the press’ that you mentioned last night when you talked about Lucinda’s past?”
“Yes, another call to Mr. Cohen when you were out. Through the Gazette files and European correspondents, he confirmed what I suspected: that Lucinda Forrester-Moore was indeed a German émigré, and that her name had been Wald.”
Murder in E Minor Page 17
