Wolfe took a sip of chocolate. “I’m not going to place such an advertisement, but the threat alone will be sufficient to get each one of them here.”
“In that case, it should be a snap. When do you want them?”
“You know my schedule as well as I do,” he said airily, reaching for the Times. “Let that alone govern you.”
There had to be a good comeback to that, but I was damned if I could think of one, so I closed the door hard behind me, not quite a slam, and went down to the office. I got Lon on the second ring.
“Archie, this place is an asylum. I can’t talk. What’s on your mind?” Behind him, the Gazette sounded like the Tower of Babel. When I told him I wanted to see Mrs. Haverhill’s office, he said the police were still climbing all over it but probably would clear out by noon. “How does this request of yours tie in with Wolfe’s ad?” he said in a voice that was now almost a shout.
“Look, I’ll fill you in as much as I can when I get there,” I said, raising my own voice so he could hear me above the journalistic din. “Give me a time.”
He said twelve, and I said I’d be there at the stroke of the hour. I then set to figuring out how I was going to get the various younger Haverhills plus Carl Bishop to appear as ordered at Thirty-fifth Street. After fifteen minutes of seeking inspiration from the globe, the bookshelves, the sofa, the safe, and almost every other object in the room, I snapped my fingers. I had the answer. And it could be done, I bet myself, without a single telephone call.
In the kitchen, Fritz was working on lunch—sweetbreads amandine in patty shells. “Save some for me for later,” I told him as I refilled my coffee cup from the pot on the stove. “I’m going to be out at mealtime, but I don’t want to be robbed of my fair share.”
Fritz smiled as he always does when his cooking gets a compliment, but then a frown took over. “Archie, are you going out because of . . . Mrs. Haverhill?”
“What you’re really asking is: ‘Are we working on a case?’ The answer is yes and no. Yes, Mr. Wolfe is interested in her death. No, we don’t have a client, and therefore, we don’t have any prospects of a fee.”
Fritz’s gloom deepened. “The papers say she killed herself.”
“Mr. Wolfe doesn’t believe that.”
“What do you think, Archie?”
“Look, I’m not paid to think, and according to Mr. Wolfe, if I were, I’d be getting my checks from the state unemployment office. I’m paid to run errands, chase down clues, and haul everyone from Jimmy the Greek to Queen Elizabeth back here so His Lordship can grill them in the ease and comfort of his own home.”
That little speech made me feel good, although it didn’t do much for Fritz, who turned back to his work with a mopey mug. I carried my coffee to the office, where I cleaned up some paperwork, changed the typewriter ribbon, and otherwise tried finding innovative ways of keeping busy. By ten-thirty I decided I needed air. I wasn’t anxious to be around when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms; the next time I saw him, I wanted to report some kind of progress.
The sky was gray but the breeze was warm as I headed east at what exercise books probably call a healthy pace. I turned north on Sixth Avenue, catching a glimpse of that spire that tops off the Empire State. I’d have to remember to ask Wolfe if that’s the kind of architectural ornamentation he likes. It suits me well enough, although my personal favorite is the shiny silver spike on the Chrysler Building.
Up near Times Square, I stopped for a glass of milk at a lunch counter, then worked my way north and east until I was in the upper Forties close to First Avenue. My watch read seven minutes to twelve when I turned into the Gazette Building’s block. Two squad cars and mobile units from three TV stations were packed in as close to the front entrance as they could get, and knots of gapers stood on the sidewalks on both sides of the street gawking up at the building, as if anticipating jumpers.
The circus goes on, I thought as I spun through the revolving door and into the two-story Gothic lobby with its neon Gazette logo sending down a glow from high on the marble wall. There were two baby-faced uniformed cops, neither of whom I recognized, among the dozen or so people standing around buzzing. I went to the reception desk, where I signed in while a security guard called Lon’s office. “He’s expecting you,” the guard mouthed through a ham-and-Swiss sandwich, giving me a laminated pass that I clipped to my breast pocket. “Twentieth floor” was his next mumble.
I knew it was the twentieth floor—I’d been in Lon’s office more times than I could remember. I caught a nonstop elevator and swung his door open at one minute to noon.
“Don’t you knock?” he growled, looking up from a littered desk in his 9x12 office.
“Smiley down in the lobby said you were expecting me.” I grinned, dropping into a straight-backed chair. “Things calming down a bit?”
“This is the first time in more than two hours that there haven’t been at least three other people in here,” he rasped. “I haven’t even had time to get down to the city room. And now you . . .” He turned his palms up and rolled his eyes.
“Sounds to me like your day’s improving steadily,” I said, crossing my legs.
Lon yanked at his tie and leaned on his elbows. “Archie, what’s this all about? I can understand—and agree with—Wolfe’s concern about MacLaren’s gobbling up the paper, but how on earth does that tie in with Mrs. Haverhill’s suicide?”
“He doesn’t think it was suicide.”
Lon groaned. “Oh, come on, Archie! You’re not going to tell me that—”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you. He claims it’s murder.”
“How the hell can he think that?” Lon said, cupping his chin in one hand and shaking his head. He eyed the cold coffee in his mug and rejected it.
“You’ve got me. He hasn’t shared his thought processes, but if Nero Wolfe says it’s murder, I’ll buy it.”
“What choice have you got—you’re working for him.”
“Hey,” I said, leaning forward, “has Wolfe ever gulled you?”
“No,” Lon admitted. “You’ve both kept a few things from us at times, though.”
“Only during a case. Afterward, you always get the story first—and complete.”
“Okay, all right,” he said, throwing up his hands. “You don’t have to call in your markers. You came to see her office, right?”
I nodded and we went down the hall to a set of mahogany double doors at the end that had no name or number on them.
“The police are through in there now—they decided not to seal it. That,” he said pointedly, “is how cut-and-dried they think the suicide is. But we may still have some company,” Lon said over his shoulder as he turned one of the French-door handles and pushed. The suite was large, lush, and crowded. A local television crew— young blond reporter, soundman, and lightman—were packing their gear under the indifferent gaze of another security guard.
“It’s okay, Eddie,” Lon told the guard. “The gentleman’s with me. We’ll close up after we’re through.”
“Yessir, Mr. Cohen,” Eddie said, tipping his hat as he ushered the TV crew out. I sidestepped to keep from being trampled.
“Quite a layout,” I whistled, admiring the high-ceilinged room, which was bigger than Wolfe’s office and a damn sight fancier. Or maybe “fussier” was a better word. I felt like I’d just opened Architectural Digest, which is one of Lily’s favorite magazines. Everything was lacquer or velvet. Not surprisingly, it occupied corner space, so there were sweeping windows on two sides. We had entered at one end, and the desk, an elegant white number the size of a pool table with delicate curvy legs, was on our right. Three heavily draperied windows and a credenza with a computer terminal were behind it. At the far end of the room, some thirty-five feet away, was
a light blue sofa, centered under two windows and flanked by end tables with tall lamps on them. Several light blue chairs of a style similar to the sofa were scattered around the room. On the walls hung Fr
ench impressionist oils that fit in perfectly.
The left wall was dominated by built-in bookcases and a large TV screen. On either side of the bookcases were dark wood doors.
“Where do they lead?” I asked Lon.
“The nearest goes to a powder room. And that far one connects with a bedroom-bathroom-kitchen suite. This is actually an apartment, and it’s where she lived most of the time. She liked being on the premises—she almost never spent the night at her place up on Park. That was more for entertaining, big parties for local muckety-mucks or visiting publishers, things like that.”
“The body was found at the desk?”
Lon nodded. “The gun was still in her hand.”
We both snuck a look at the desk blotter. If there had ever been any blood there, it was gone now.
“Whose gun?”
“Her own. She kept it in her right-hand drawer ever since that editor got kidnapped down South some years back.”
“Did a lot of people know it was there?”
“I doubt it.” Lon frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t, until today. Carl Bishop’s the one who told me about it. But I suppose we’d be amazed to learn how many executives keep handguns in their offices.”
“No argument there,” I said. “Did anyone hear the shot?”
“Apparently not, although that’s no surprise, considering how thick the walls are—and the fact that it happened after working hours.”
“I thought a newspaper never closed.”
“It doesn’t, Archie—the newsroom, that is. But all, the advertising, circulation, and executive offices on the upper floors are usually empty by six or so. Those of us who are still around at that hour normally head downstairs where the action is.”
“Who found Mrs. Haverhill? And when?”
“A guard on his rounds noticed the door to her office ajar at seven-forty and stuck his head in to see if everything was all right. The medical examiner estimated she’d been dead at least one hour.”
“The Times story said there was no suicide note. Is that true, or did somebody cover it up?”
“I was one of the first ones here after she was found, and there wasn’t any note then. The only others ahead of me were the guard who found her, his supervising captain, and Carl.”
“So even though it was long past six, you and Bishop were still both on the executive floor, and not in the newsroom?”
Lon shot a hard glance at me. “Be careful, Archie; you’re beginning to sound like Cramer. The reason we were both still in our offices was that we were waiting— that is, Carl was—for a call from Harriet, to find out how the meeting with MacLaren had gone. Satisfied?”
“Hey, don’t get testy. I’m just trying to find out what happened. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that there wasn’t a note?”
Lon shrugged. “Not really; lots of people end it without an explanation. What does strike me as strange is why she did it. I always figured she’d fight MacLaren to the finish.” He stared at her desk.
“But you’re convinced it’s suicide?”
Another shrug. “My guess is that after all the meetings yesterday, she must have realized MacLaren had enough commitments from the other family members to control the paper. She’d have lost everything she’d worked years to build. Must have been more than she could handle.”
“Doesn’t that seem out of character?”
“Archie, who’s to say what’s out of character when a personal crisis comes up?”
I could have posed a dozen more questions, but I figured that was Wolfe’s province. I did, however, ask Lon to describe the position of the body when they found it, and then I spent a few more minutes looking around and poking my head into the powder room and bedroom of what had been Harriet Haverhill’s sanctuary.
“I’ve got one more favor to ask,” I told Lon after he’d locked the double doors and we were heading down the hall to his office.
“Only one?”
“For now, anyway. I’d like to talk to Bishop.”
“He’s been swamped all morning. Police, interviews with reporters from TV and the other papers, and God knows how many meetings.”
“Try.”
Lon heaved a sigh. “This time, Archie, you’re going to end up owing me. Today is worth at least two more of Fritz’s meals.”
“We’re booked through June, but I’ll pencil you in for a Wednesday in mid-July, and another in August.”
Back in his office, Lon phoned Bishop. “You’re lucky,” he said, hanging up. “He’s just finishing a meeting with some of the editors. Let’s go in.”
We went one door farther down the hall, and it swung open as a half-dozen shirt-sleeved men and two women with sober expressions trooped out, most of them nodding to Lon. Then Elliot Dean popped out of the next office, spotted me and tried to shrivel me with his beady little eyes. When that failed, he stalked past. We walked in to find Carlton Bishop, publisher of the Gazette, himself in shirtsleeves, standing behind his own billiard-table-size desk, hands jammed into his pants pockets. There were sweat stains under his arms. I’d met him once several years before, and he hadn’t changed all that much, except his white hair was a little thinner and he understandably looked haggard.
“Carl, you remember Archie Goodwin,” Lon said.
Bishop nodded grimly. “What brings you by?” he asked in the gravelly voice I recalled from our other meeting. “Don’t tell me some paper has hired you to cover this?”
“No,” I said. “I work for Nero Wolfe, as you know. He believes Mrs. Haverhill was murdered.”
“Wha-a-a-t?” Bishop mouthed the word, although almost no sound came out. He dropped heavily into his chair and stared out the window while Lon and I also took seats.
“Carl, I’ve already told him this is crazy,” Lon said.
Bishop swung around in his chair, letting me know his patience was running thin. “Goodwin, first of all, the police seem convinced she killed herself, and so am I. Second, I know your boss has no use for MacLaren—I read his letter in the Times and I agree with almost everything in that letter. But to accuse the man of murder—”
“Mr. Wolfe hasn’t fingered anybody specific yet.”
“Who’s his client?”
“He hasn’t got one, at least as far as I know.”
“You mean he’s trying to drum one up?”
“I haven’t said that,” I answered. “All I know is that Nero Wolfe is positive this was a murder.”
“Well, what the hell do you want from me?”
“I was coming to that. Mr. Wolfe would like to talk to you in his office. And also, individually, to David Haverhill, Donna Palmer, and Scott Haverhill.”
“Oh, he would, would he? How does he think he’s going to get us to his office?”
“Mrs. Haverhill didn’t mind coming there,” I said quietly. “Earlier this week.”
Bishop kneaded the arms of his chair. He looked like hell. “I know,” he whispered. “She told me.”
“I’ll ask you the same question I asked Lon,” I said, pressing my advantage. “Has Nero Wolfe ever gulled you?”
Bishop shook his head.
So far, so good. I pushed on. “He’s been a good friend to the Gazette, and he still is. To use a favorite phrase of Lon’s, this time I’m calling in our markers. Will you come—and get the others to come?”
Bishop ran a hand through his white hair and surrendered. “Yeah, I can go and see Wolfe—why not? I can’t guarantee the others, but I’ll talk to them. I’ll let you know, probably through Lon.”
“Fair enough,” I said, rising to go. “He’d like to see you all before the weekend’s over.” I thought about shaking hands, but figured Bishop wasn’t in much of a mood to be friendly with anyone. I didn’t blame him.
TEN
It was just after two when I got back to the brownstone, which meant Wolfe was still in the dining room attacking his lunch. I went straight to the kitchen, where Fritz warmed the plate of sweetbreads he had set aside for me. I
knew he was dying to ask how my mission went, but he didn’t, and I wasn’t about to volunteer anything. I needed some quiet time to chew on the events of the last few hours before I got debriefed by Wolfe.
I polished off the sweetbreads and chased them with a generous wedge of peach pie and a glass of milk. When I finished, Fritz handed me a stack of phone messages. One was from yet another would-be purchaser of the Gazette; the other four were reporters, all of whom probably wanted Wolfe’s comments on Harriet Haverhill’s death and whether it was somehow connected with his letter in the Times.
I took the messages and a cup of coffee to the office, where Wolfe was already planted in his favorite chair with a fresh book, Joseph Conrad, a Chronicle, by Zdzislaw Najder, and two fresh bottles of beer. At my desk, I drank coffee and contemplated the mirror on the wall. After several minutes, Wolfe set his book down and broke the silence. “Well?” he demanded sourly.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I said innocently. “I never know when you’re in the middle of a particularly riveting passage, and I realize how irritating it can be when someone starts talking just at the time—”
“Stop blathering! Report.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, turning toward him. First came a thorough description of the death scene, and I didn’t leave anything out. He leaned back with his eyes closed, and if he was listening as carefully as I thought, he got a complete picture of the big office, from the color and thickness of the carpet to the size of the desk and the way Harriet Haverhill—according to Lon—was slumped over the desk when they found her. It took me about fifteen minutes, and after I finished, he remained motionless, his eyes still closed.
“I also saw Bishop, if you’re interested,” I said. He opened his eyes to slits and nodded.
“First off, you should know that they’ll all be trooping over to see you—Bishop and the three heirs. I haven’t worked out specific times yet, but I was able to do it without resorting to that silly suggestion of yours about another ad in the Times” That didn’t get a rise, so I went ahead with a verbatim report on the short conversation with Bishop, which was easy. After I finished, he heaved himself upright and tried to pour beer from an empty bottle.
Death on Deadline Page 8
