Death on Deadline

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Will he name a murderer?” she said breathlessly.

  “He hasn’t shared that information with me, but it’s not a bad guess.”

  “I suppose Ian will be there?”

  I told her he would, along with the people from the Gazette, but I insisted I didn’t know anything beyond that. She said she would come, and I told her to be here at eight-forty.

  Next on the list of chores I’d gotten from Wolfe the night before was to call Lon Cohen. “Got a minute?” I asked when he answered.

  “Yeah, but not much more. Shoot.”

  “There’s going to be a get-together here tonight, maybe you’ve heard.”

  “Carl told me about it when he came in. He’s not hot for the idea, but I gather he’s trying to round up the others now.”

  “Satisfactory. Mr. Wolfe thinks it would be good if you came too, but keep that to yourself. You can sit in the front room while the sessions going on.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lon said, alarm creeping into his voice. “Are you trying to tell me something? Like maybe that . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything, except that my boss issued the invitation. Attendance isn’t compulsory.”

  “Hell, you know damn well I’ll be there.”

  “But without telling anyone,” I stressed. “Come at eight-thirty.”

  He sounded a little dazed but said to count him in.

  I dialed Inspector Cramer’s number. The flunky who answered told me he was tied up indefinitely, and I insisted that it was important. He covered the receiver and I could hear muffled voices before a familiar one came on.

  “Goodwin? What do you want?” Good old Sergeant Purley Stebbins.

  “I was trying to reach your boss, at the request of my boss. He wants to invite him—and you—to a party.”

  “What kind of garbage is this?” Purley isn’t one to waste words.

  “Mr. Wolfe plans to talk about the murder of Harriet Haverhill. Her relatives are going to be there, along with Carl Bishop, Elliot Dean, and the great Scottish press baron himself.”

  Purley hissed a word that I wouldn’t use in polite company and groaned. “One of those.” He obviously was referring to Wolfe’s round-up-the-suspects-and-name-the-murderer evenings, several of which he has attended over the years. “I’ll pass the word to the Inspector,” he said, hanging up. No one seemed to want an extended conversation with me these days. I buzzed Wolfe in the plant rooms.

  “Yes?”

  “Audrey is a yes,” I reported. “Lon’s coming too, and understands he has to stay in the front room. I called Cramer and got Purley, who grumbled but said he’d tell him about it. We’ll probably be getting a call from him soon. I haven’t tried Saul, because there’s no way he could have gotten back yet from the Carolinas.” Wolfe muttered something that sounded like “Very well” and banged his receiver without giving further instructions, so I went to the kitchen to review some of the details of the evening with Fritz.

  The day passed slowly and without noteworthy activity, unless you count Cramer’s call, which came at eleven just after Wolfe had gotten settled in the office. I answered and stayed on the line.

  “All of them are really going to be at your place tonight?” Cramer croaked.

  “That is my understanding, sir. We will begin at nine.”

  “And you claim you’re going to name a murderer?”

  “It is not a claim—it is an assurance.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Mr. Cramer, have I ever failed to make good my promise in circumstances similar to this?”

  Cramer used the same word Purley had. Limited vocabularies. “I’ll see you tonight!” he said loudly, banging his phone down so hard that Wolfe cringed.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Wolfe passed the rest of the morning, and the afternoon for that matter, reading, filling out order blanks in two new seed catalogs, and signing correspondence. My favorite letter was one he wrote to the editor of a magazine for orchid growers, criticizing him for the increasing number of typographical errors in his publication. “In your most recent issue,” Wolfe wrote, “ ‘paphiopedilum,’ ‘phalaenopsis,’ and—heaven forbid—’oncidium’ each got misspelled once and ‘odontoglossum’ was misspelled twice. Far from acceptable from a periodical that purports to be a leader in its field.”

  At lunch, he held forth on why a free press was so instrumental in the growth and development of the United States, which is as close as we had come that day to discussing business.

  Finally at two-thirty, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and Wolfe obviously wasn’t about to volunteer a thing. “Look,” I said, turning to him, “I admit it—I’m stumped. I don’t have any idea what you’re cooking up. Don’t you think you should share your little secret? After all, I might be more helpful tonight if I know where we’re headed.”

  Wolfe leaned back, his eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth twitched. Okay, I thought, enjoy yourself all you want, even gloat, but unload. He aid, and when he laid it out, everything seemed obvious. But then, it usually does after it’s been spelled out.

  When Wolfe went up to the plant rooms, I started preparing the office. I got interrupted by two calls, one

  each from newspaper and TV reporters following up on Wolfe’s murder theory and wanting to know if there were any new developments. I said no, wondering how they’d react when they saw Saturday’s late edition of the Gazette.

  I didn’t get around to finishing the office setup until after dinner, when Fritz gave me a hand. While Wolfe sat reading, oblivious of us, we rearranged the chairs and brought in some extras from the dining room, placing them with the assumption that all the invited guests would show. Fritz wheeled in the big serving cart, also from the dining room, and we set up a bar with gin, vodka, rye, bourbon, Scotch, sherry, and a carafe each of white and red wine. I had my usual argument with him, claiming that almost nobody asks for red wine except during a meal, but he held fast and even made sure a bottle of rosé was on hand too.

  At eight-thirty, the doorbell rang. I got to the hall and let Lon in, and we went to the office, where he slipped into the red chair. “You’ll want to view the proceedings through the hole in the painting,” Wolfe told him. Lon nodded, and I knew he was bursting to ask what exactly he would be watching, but he knew Wolfe well enough to realize he wasn’t going to get an answer—not yet, anyway.

  I should discuss the hole in the painting. On the right as you walk into the office from the hall is a colorful picture of a waterfall, with lots of greens and blues. It was made to Wolfe’s specifications years ago, and there’s a hole in it that’s almost impossible to spot. In the hall is a wooden panel with hinges. Swing it open, and you’re looking at the back of the picture. But that’s not all you’re looking at: the hole, at eye level for someone about my height, which is five-eleven, gives you a view of the entire office, and you also can near everything that’s said. This was where Lon would watch the action.

  At eight-forty-five, the bell chimed, which meant the first of our cast had arrived. Wolfe and Lon rose and headed for the kitchen, where they would wait until everyone got seated. When I asked Lon if he wanted a

  drink, he gave me a “No thanks, not while I’m working—try me later.”

  Through the front door panel, I saw Audrey MacLaren, wearing a designer suit the color of her eyes and a nervous look on that stunning face. “Come in,” I said as she stepped across the threshold and cut loose with what she probably thought was a fetching smile. She was right. “Am I the first one here?”

  “You are indeed,” I said, admiring her suit as I followed her into the office, directing her to the red leather chair, which probably was still warm from Lon.

  “Where’s Mr. Wolfe?” she asked, the nervous look back in place of the smile.

  “He likes to make a grand entry. You won’t see him until all the players are in place.”

  “And the players are . . . ?”


  I ran down the guest list for her—including Cramer and Stebbins—and asked if she wanted a drink. I got a shake of the head as the bell sounded again.

  The newcomers were Inspector Cramer and Purley Stebbins, both of whom nodded grimly as I swung the door open. They marched into the office, and I introduced them to Audrey, who turned in her chair, nodded, and then gave them her back. Cramer and Purley, each clad in a dark blue suit about as stylish as what the Russian muckety-mucks wear, moved to the two chairs in the third row, which were spots they had occupied in similar situations.

  The next time the doorbell rang, Fritz was there to help out in case there were coats. It was all four of the Haverhills. David and Carolyn had obviously been arguing out on the stoop and both of the men came in griping. “Goodwin, we’re only here because Carl told us Wolfe was threatening to go to the Times with some kind of stupid story,” Scott announced loudly. “That’s the only reason, believe me.” David seconded the complaint in a whiny echo, and Donna looked somber but said nothing. Carolyn looked pretty good herself in a red outfit that I guessed was a Galanos. If nothing else, the evening would set a record for the greatest number of good-looking women in the brownstone at one time.

  Fritz was in agony. He always suspects women visit merely to attempt to seduce Wolfe.

  As I was ushering them into the office, the bell rang again and Fritz got it, letting Bishop and Dean in, neither of whom said a word as they entered the hall. I orchestrated the seating, directing David to the chair next to Audrey in the front row and Carolyn next to him. I left the last chair up front vacant for MacLaren. Next, I motioned Scott and Donna to the two middle seats in the second row. They, like David and Carolyn, looked back at Cramer and Stebbins, but nobody said anything. They also shot a curious glance in Audrey’s direction, which was understandable, as nobody else in the room had likely ever seen her before. I started to make introductions, but figured I’d leave that for Wolfe.

  I showed Dean to the chair in the second row nearest me and gestured Bishop to the one at the other end of the row. Bishop nodded to the various Haverhills, who all nodded back, but Dean pulled his usual slouching act, arms folded. “Where’s Wolfe?” he wheezed. “And who’s that waiting for?” He gestured toward the empty chair.

  I started to reply, when the bell squawked again. Until I heard it, I honestly wasn’t sure we were going to see MacLaren. I went to the door, greeting him with a thin smile that nicely mirrored his own. “I don’t plan to stay long,” he announced, pushing in past me and yanking off his Burberry, which he threw carelessly onto one of the pegs.

  When we entered the office, the hubbub began, and nobody paid any attention to me when I walked behind Wolfe’s desk and reached under the drawer to push the buzzer. “What’s he doing here?” Dean demanded shrilly, then had to stop to catch his breath. “Nobody said anything about him. I don’t want to be in the same room with that—”

  “Elliot,” Bishop said, “take it easy.” The man’s little mustache kept quivering, but at Bishop’s urging, he settled back.

  “I’ve heard about these performances,” David piped up. He’d already helped himself to a drink. “I understand they’re entertaining, but let me tell you, I’m in no mood to be entertained.”

  “Nor am I in the mood to entertain,” Wolfe said as he stood in the doorway. He walked in, edged along the wall because of all the chairs, and seated himself. “I’m having beer—would anyone like refreshments?” He gestured toward the cart.

  “I prefer to remain sober,” MacLaren said with a glacial smile, and there were nods and murmurs of agreement. David frowned silently into his bourbon. This group was not about to become chums. “No?” Wolfe asked. “Very well. Archie, have you made introductions?”

  “Not of our client,” I said.

  He placed his palms flat on the desk.

  “The woman on my right in the front row is Audrey MacLaren,” he said, his eyes moving from face to face. “She is my client.”

  “And for those of you who haven’t figured it out, my former wife,” MacLaren said defiantly, turning in his chair to face the others. “She’s trying to set me up for—”

  “Enough!” Wolfe crackled, as Audrey bristled and prepared to attack. “Sir, if everyone is allowed to blurt as they please, this may take all night. I don’t think any of you want that.” He then proceeded to name each of the others to our client as MacLaren muttered. If looks could kill, we’d be sitting in a roomful of corpses.

  “Just a minute,” Scott said as he finished. “I’d like to know why these two are here.” He stabbed a finger at Cramer and Stebbins. “I recognize one as the policeman who came to see us after Harriet died.” New York’s Finest looked at him without affection. If I were Scott Haverhill, I would make myself a mental note never to double-park in this borough.

  “Come now, Scott,” Bishop said. “Do you really wonder why they’re here? Isn’t it obvious? Our host is planning to unveil a murderer tonight.”

  “If I may interject,” Wolfe said, “Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins of Homicide are here at my request. I would only echo Mr. Bishop’s words—the reason for their presence should be evident.” Fritz came in with beer and Wolfe paused to pour, tucking the first bottle cap in his drawer. “I appreciate—”

  “You like to use the word ‘flummery,’“ Cramer cut in, and everyone turned to stare at him. “Well, there’d better not be any flummery here tonight. If this thing backfires, it’s going to be plenty embarrassing for you— I’ll personally see to that.” He waggled his finger warningly at Wolfe.

  “Put your finger away, Mr. Cramer. I have no intent of flummoxing you or anybody else. You will find the proceedings straightforward and easy to follow. Now, to continue, I appreciate that you all have pressing schedules, and I’m grateful that you took the time to be here,” he said as his eyes traveled over the faces in front of him.

  “Well, we’re not grateful for the invitation,” Scott snapped, and, encouraged, some of the others joined in. We’d have a full-scale riot on our hands in no time. I sat back to enjoy it, keeping my eyes on all of them, but paying particular attention to our client.

  “That’s understandable. Nonetheless, you all came, and I vow not to prolong the evening unnecessarily, although one among you may not wish for a swift denouement.”

  “So you’re back to thinking it’s a murder.” Dean’s eyes bulged above the little mustache.

  “I never stopped calling it a murder,” Wolfe replied blandly. “All of you know I have contended from the start that Harriet Haverhill did not die by her own hand. I found no adherents to my position, with the possible exception of Mr. Goodwin, and you may wish to discount his vote, as he is in my employ.” I made a face at him, but his eyes stayed on our guests.

  “Why was I convinced Mrs. Haverhill was not a suicide?” he asked, turning a palm over. “As I told some of you earlier, including Inspector Cramer, my conviction was based on one conversation I had with her in this room a little more than a week ago. But that meeting, and the impression it left, were enough to convince me that this woman would not under any circumstances destroy herself. And I maintained this even when I learned a fact which I am not free to divulge, but which might well be seen as sufficient motivation for self-destruction.” He shot a look at Cramer, who scowled back at him.

  “My dilemma was that no one had sufficient motive to kill her.” Again his eyes traveled over the faces, stopping at each one. There was some satisfactory fidgeting when he did so.

  “Mr. MacLaren, to all appearances, getting Mrs. Haverhill out of the way would do you no good. You either had the shares necessary for control of the Gazette or you didn’t. Her death could have no effect on those shares, and her own substantial holding was already committed to a trust, as everyone knew.

  “Mr. Haverhill,” he said, turning to David, “you were determined to sell your shares to Mr. MacLaren for a tidy sum, and your stepmother had no legal means of preventing this foolish action.
The same held true for your cousin.” He gestured toward Scott. “As for your sister, she too had made the decision to sell to Mr. MacLaren. And your wife,” he said, turning toward Carolyn, “may have wielded considerable influence on the paper through you, but could hardly be seen to gain from the death of its chairman. That brings us to Messrs. Bishop and Dean; they were outspoken in their loyalty to Mrs. Haverhill and her causes. One would be hard put to suspect either of them.

  “Manifestly,” he continued, “it would seem that no one stood to profit in any way from the death of Harriet Haverhill. It would appear that she had lost her valiant battle to retain control of the Gazette. Therefore, why would anyone want to murder her?”

  “You’re making your own case for her suicide,” Cramer growled.

  “So it would appear,” Wolfe admitted. “But I refused to accept the apparent. The key had to lie in the mathematics of the situation.”

  “What the hell do mathematics have to do with all of this?” David looked like he was going to have a stroke. He splashed liquor on his tie, and Carolyn’s smile faded.

  “I’ll get to that, sir, if you’ll allow me. The mathematics are those involving the percentages of Gazette stock owned by each of the shareholders. I confess the answer should have been immediately obvious, given the signs. You have my mea culpa.

  “But to move on: the shares owned by Arlen Publishing and the Demarest family were committed to Mr. MacLaren. Does anyone challenge that?” He raised his brows and looked around. MacLaren, I blush to disclose, simpered triumphantly. Dean looked like he was about to spit fire.

  “No? Then we may assume that these holdings, slightly more than twelve percent of the total shares, settle on the MacLaren side of the ledger. Are we agreed in adding to that figure the blocks held by David Haverhill and Donna Palmer?” Again he surveyed the audience.