I can’t say whether the British newspapers would still call her one of the most beautiful women in England, but as I sized her up through the one-way glass, I was willing to volunteer as a judge, just to see who could possibly finish ahead of her. We’re talking world-class looks here. So she’s forty-one according to Saul’s research, but unless she’d sent a stand-in, I was prepared to admit that the fountain of youth had been found.
“You would be Audrey MacLaren,” I said, swinging the door open and standing aside to let her enter.
“And you would be the fabled Archie Goodwin,” she replied with a smile that lit the hall as she stepped in.
Someday I’ll learn. But what the hell, in that moment she had me. I was ready to cancel any future plans with anyone—Lily Rowan included. For the record, the woman I had just given my heart to was wearing an emerald-green rough silk number that advertised her curves without overselling them. The skin: spectacular. The hair: about the color of an Irish setter, and if she and her hairdresser shared a secret, I didn’t want to know. The eyes were blue as the heavens, and they held mine as I gestured toward the office. And yes, the legs were likely to get the attention of her host.
“This is Nero Wolfe,” I babbled unnecessarily, steering her to the red leather chair. I then turned to him and introduced Audrey.
“Madam,” he said, putting his book aside and dipping his head a quarter-inch.
“Mr. Wolfe,” she responded in a voice angels would have coveted, “I know you don’t shake hands, which is a good policy. One never knows how much they might become contaminated.”
Wolfe’s eyes opened wide. She had brought him up short, and I swallowed a “Bravo!” as I eased into the chair at my desk. But he recovered quickly.
“The handshake has been used so indiscriminately by so many for so long that it has become hopelessly trivialized, a meaningless gesture,” he instructed her. “I prefer to use words as a means of expressing thoughts and feelings.”
“I completely agree,” she said, turning on the smile and crossing her legs in a motion that was not lost on either of us. “Etiquette so often absurdly dictates that we cling to many outmoded and obsolete traditions.”
“Etiquette does not dictate to me,” he growled. “Madam, we both know that the reason for your visit was not to discuss tribal rites.”
“No,” she said, smiling again. She knew how to do it right, even if it didn’t charm Wolfe. “I have a tendency to get sidetracked, I’m afraid, and I apologize. I was heartened when I saw the article in yesterday’s Gazette about your insistence that Harriet Haverhill’s death was murder. As I said on the phone to Mr. Goodwin, I am prepared to hire you to find her killer.”
“You also told Mr. Goodwin that you know who that person is.”
“I do,” she answered evenly, looking at him with her beautiful eyes for a reaction. When she got none, she went on. “There’s absolutely no question—Ian is the one.”
“Indeed? What proof have you?”
“Oh, I don’t have the proof—that’s why I’ve come to you. But I am morally certain that he did it. Or he paid someone to do it. Actually, probably the latter. That would be more like him—using money to sweep aside any obstacle.”
Wolfe made a face. “Before we expend any more of each other’s time, madam, you need to be made aware of one of the tenets of this office: Mr. Goodwin and I will undertake no assignment that involves any aspect of marital strife, whether it be divorce, separation, or simply animus.”
It was Audrey’s turn to open her eyes wide. “Oh no,” she protested, shaking her head vigorously. “Marital strife, as you call it, is not the issue here. My marriage to Ian MacLaren ended years ago—really long before our divorce became official. What is important is that I probably know him better than anyone else in the world, and I know what he’s capable of.”
“Come now,” Wolfe said, shifting in his chair. “It’s apparent that you have no evidence whatever that your former husband had a role in Mrs. Haverhill’s death.”
Audrey’s smile had been replaced by a pout, causing me to hastily reassess my passion for her. “Let me tell you about Ian,” she said in a voice just above a whisper as she leaned forward in her chair. “He is obsessed with success, which for him means never standing still. It’s always more newspapers, more power, more influence. I don’t believe he’ll ever be satisfied.
“I’ll tell you why I know he killed the poor woman.” The intensity in her voice showed in her face. “Once—it was probably four years ago, maybe longer—he was talking to me about his goals. I can recall it perfectly; we were in our flat in London. We had finished dinner, and sat in the study with brandies. He started going over each of the newspapers he had swallowed up, reveling in every purchase. That wasn’t unusual, because he liked to relive his victories and I tried to be a good listener, even when I’d heard it all Lord knows how many times.
“Suddenly he started talking about having a New York paper—as you surely know, that has been a longtime goal of his. He stared at the bookcases and said, ‘Nothing is going to stop me. And no one. I’d kill first.’ Those were his words, Mr. Wolfe, exactly. I’ve never forgotten that—it was frightening.” She looked triumphantly at Wolfe.
“Bravado,” he snorted. “He was trying to impress you.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, raising her chin. “By that time in our lives, he wasn’t interested in impressing me. That night, I can assure you that I saw the face—and mind—of a murderer. It was terrifying. Not that I ever imagined anything like this would ever happen, mind you.”
Wolfe was still scowling. “You and your former husband had an acrimonious parting,” he said. “My understanding is that you haven’t spoken to each other in years.”
“You’ve been investigating me,” she chided softly, with a hint of amusement.
“I make it a point to learn what I can about prospective clients,” he replied, reaching for the buzzer under his desk. “Would you like a drink? I’m having beer.”
She shook her head and put a hand to the Irish-setter-colored hair. “You obviously don’t take me seriously,” she said, her face tightening.
Wolfe drew in air and made a production of exhaling. “On the contrary, madam, I take you most seriously,” he said. “But consider my perspective: a would-be client comes, seeking the solution of a murder. Her former husband, for whom she holds undeniably rancorous feelings, is a possible suspect. She was not at the scene, and was not even acquainted with the dead individual, so she feels no attachment or loyalty to that unfortunate person. Further, the police blindly insist upon labeling the murder a suicide. What am I to assume her motive is in hiring me?”
“What difference does my motive make?”
“Madam, it makes a great deal of difference whether you seek truth or vengeance. If uncovering the truth is your goal, you presumably will be satisfied with my work as long as I identify the murderer, whoever he is. But if you seek vengeance, you will be contented only if the scent leads me to your former husband.”
“In this case, truth and vengeance both point to the same man,” she insisted.
“I don’t accept that,” Wolfe said, shaking his head. “I am not yet prepared to name a murderer, but I have no reason to suspect Ian MacLaren above anyone else.”
“Nonsense!” Her eyes flashed with irritation. “The only reason the police aren’t calling it murder is because of Ian’s power. You can’t imagine how deep his tentacles extend—and how many strings he can pull to get his way. He’s got them buffaloed—they’re afraid of him. Press barons can do almost anything they want. Well, I don’t believe he can buffalo you, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he cautioned. “I summarily reject your outrageous notion. The New York Police Department, whatever its shortcomings, will not be cowed by anyone. And even if they were susceptible to intimidation, it would hardly be at the hands of a press baron, to use your term, who doesn’t even own a New York newspaper. He has no p
ower base here.”
Audrey swallowed hard but held Wolfe’s gaze. “All right,” she nodded, “I’m still willing to take a chance to hire you.”
He considered her. “Take a chance? You realize, of course, that whether or not I have a client, I will pursue this investigation. Therefore, you would get the same results by saving your money and simply being a spectator.”
“I don’t want to be a spectator,” she said, raising her English voice a notch. “I want to hire you. I know enough about you to realize your fees are high. I am prepared to pay you fifty thousand dollars now, and another fifty thousand when the murderer is named, if that is acceptable. Here’s a certified check in your name for the first payment,” she said, reaching into her purse, pulling it out, and placing it on the corner of the desk.
“Very well,” Wolfe said. “I accept the commission with this proviso: that I receive the second check regardless of whom I name. However, that second payment need not be tendered until the individual is found guilty.”
“That sounds most fair,” Audrey said, rearranging that breathtaking face into a smile. “Now I have a favor to ask: would it be possible to keep our arrangement confidential? My former husband is a vindictive man. If he were to find out that I was your client, he might very well take it out on the children in some way.”
Or take it out on you by cutting down on his alimony payments, I thought as I watched her. How fleeting love is.
“I see no reason to reveal our compact. If a compelling need to do so surfaces, however, I will inform you first of the circumstances.”
Audrey realized her audience was over, and she turned to me, smiling and rising. I escorted her to the hall, once again marveling at that face as I saw it in profile. But somehow, the magic had gone, even when she looked earnestly into my eyes and said, “Mr. Archie Goodwin, thank you so much. I do hope we see each other again soon.”
As I watched her gracefully glide down our front steps in her Charles Jourdan pumps, I suppose I hoped I’d see her again soon, too. But I could wait.
When I got back to the office, Wolfe was holding the check in both hands. “Is it phony?” I asked.
“Ask our friends at Metropolitan Trust,” he muttered, thrusting it in my direction. “And she calls him vindictive. Bah.”
“Hey, where is it written that you have to like your client?” I asked. His answer was a shrug, which was more than I expected.
SIXTEEN
A few minutes after Audrey MacLaren’s exit, Wolfe left the office himself for his vertical journey to the orchids. I studied the check she’d written and pronounced it genuine before putting it in the safe, where it would stay until I walked it to the bank in the morning.
Now that we at last had a client, I needed to get moving before Wolfe lost interest, which for him is an occupational hazard. I dialed a number from memory and Lon answered on the second ring.
“Lord, what now?” he sighed, using his long-suffering tone.
“A grade-B favor, to be charged to our account,” I shot back. “Your security people log everyone in and out of the building, don’t they? Even employees?” “Right.”
“We—make that Mr. Wolfe—would like to know when on Friday night the following people left the building: Bishop, Dean, MacLaren, and the four Haverhill musketeers.”
“So those are your suspects?”
“Ask the man who pays my wages,” I said blandly. “You know me—the faithful dog who never questions his master, but just goes out day after day to bring in the newspaper from the bushes or the puddle or wherever the kid threw it.”
“Spare me,” Lon groaned. “I’ll get what you want, if only to shut you up. And please, don’t remind me again of all the scoops you’ve given us.” He promised he’d call back before dinner, and I thanked him profusely, while promising not to bring up scoops again.
My next call was to Elliot Dean at his law office. The phone was answered by a woman who sounded like she had marbles in her mouth. She didn’t seem overly anxious to connect me with Dean, even after I pointed out that he was expecting the call. I got put on hold, and after ninety-five seconds by my digital watch, marbles-mouth was back. “Mr. Dean will speak to you now,” she gabbled.
“Yes?” His mood, I could tell, was not festive.
“Archie Goodwin, from Nero Wolfe’s office,” I said. “I’m calling to set up that appointment for tomorrow. I believe Mr. Bishop talked to you about it.”
I could hear a deep breath, then a cough. “Yes, he did,” Dean said hoarsely. Another deep breath. “As you know, tomorrow is the memorial service for Harriet.”
“At ten-thirty, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” A short silence. Dean was obviously hoping I’d let him off the hook for the day, but I didn’t say anything. The silence continued for fifteen seconds before he broke it.
“Very well, I could come in the afternoon, I suppose, but I just don’t see the need for any of this.”
“What about two-thirty?”
More pausing and deep breathing before he finally agreed to come, but only for a short time and only because Bishop had asked him to. “I think all this murder talk is damn silly—worse than silly; it’s sensationalizing a very tragic time for a lot of us.” There was a catch in his voice, and for a moment I thought he was going to break down, but he stopped himself. I said nothing for fear he’d change his mind and cancel the date. Besides, he seemed determined to have the last word, so I just said we would see him tomorrow.
Seconds after I hung up, the phone rang. “Okay, Archie, here’s what you asked for,” Lon said. “MacLaren was the first one out of the building Friday, at six-twenty-seven. The others all were still around when Harriet’s body was found, so they of course stayed much longer, what with the police and everything. Scott signed out at nine-twenty, Dean at nine-fifty-one, Carl at ten-fourteen, and David and Donna and Carolyn all at ten-fifty-four. And if you have any other chores, please tell me now; I’d like to get out of here at a decent hour for a change.”
I said he was perilously close to being owed yet another of Fritz’s dinners and told him he should go home, put his feet up, and unwind with a double Scotch. He had a short answer, one word actually, but it’s best omitted from these pages.
When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six, I was at my desk typing some dictation he’d given me earlier in the day. Because the sound of my typewriter irritates him when he’s reading, drinking beer, pouting, or doing anything else in the office, I try to get my work out of the way during his sessions with the orchids. I stopped in mid-letter and swiveled to face him as he rang for beer.
“Mr. Dean was a little grumpy when I talked to him, but he’ll be here tomorrow at two-thirty,” I reported. “Also, you wanted to know when people left the Gazette office on Friday night. Here are the times,” I went on, reciting from memory, although I also had them written down in my notebook.
When I finished, I looked up. Wolfe had taken his first sip of beer and was opening his book.
“I hope I’m not keeping you from your reading,” I said.
“You’re not,” he replied, shifting his fundament in his custom-made chair.
“Thank heaven for that,” I muttered, turning back to the typewriter and attacking the keys.
I would like to report that major progress was made over the next twenty and one-half hours, but that would be a gross exaggeration. To start with, Wolfe had to suffer through my typing before dinner, and while we consumed Fritz’s curried beef roll followed by peach pie a la mode, he got even by lecturing on why Tocqueville’s Democracy in America was the greatest book ever written by a foreigner about this country. I listened politely, but didn’t add anything—I was still hot about his casual attitude in the office.
After dinner I called Lily and caught her on a rare free night, the result being that we went dancing at the Churchill. One of the many satisfying aspects of our relationship is that nobody gets miffed when the other calls with a spontaneous invi
te. We know each other well enough that neither of us gives a damn what the rule-books say. As with Wolfe, etiquette does not dictate to us.
Anyway, we had our usual fine time, and it was made even nicer because I knew that if I’d stayed home, I would probably have got into a dandy set-to with Wolfe that would have ended with me quitting or getting fired.
Tuesday morning after breakfast, I went up to the plant rooms, where Theodore had the arrangement of rare Cattleyas he and Wolfe had put together to send to Harriet’s memorial service. A delivery truck was coming at nine-thirty to take them to the church. I thought briefly about going to the service myself, but quickly vetoed it. I couldn’t figure out what there would be to gain. They’d all act solemn and dignified, and no horns would sprout on the murderer, assuming he or she was present. And besides, I’d be viewed by the mourners as a circling vulture, not an enticing prospect. Nuts to the whole idea.
I did, however, deposit Audrey’s check, so I guess it’s fair to say something got accomplished. After the walk to the bank, I continued east and north, swinging by the out-of-town newspaper stand to get fresh copies of MacLaren’s products. Call me a glutton for punishment.
This time they had all three of his dailies from Monday, and I paged them on the stroll home. Each had a six-paragraph article a few pages into the paper on Harriet’s death. It was second-day stuff, identically worded, and it mentioned Nero Wolfe’s astounding claim that she was murdered. At the end of each story was a box referring to an editorial titled “Murder Mongering.”
I stopped at Thirty-sixth Street and Seventh Avenue long enough to read one of the editorials. It was about
Wolfe, of course, and it started by stating that “It is despicable that the tragic death of a noble woman, New York Gazette chairman Harriet Haverhill, is being exploited by a publicity-hungry private investigator.” It went on to call Wolfe “an unprincipled charlatan” and concluded thus: “Although we do not presume to tell the law-enforcement officials of the great city of New York how to do their jobs, it seems to us that the recent actions of Nero Wolfe may well be grounds for the revocation of his license to practice. We know that his behavior would not be tolerated in this community.”
Death on Deadline Page 14
