“In that case, I accept. We have a good deal to discuss.”
“We do indeed.”
At ten until seven, our bell sounded, and I went to the front door to admit Lewis Hewitt.
“Good evening, Mr. Goodwin,” he said with a smile, shaking hands. “It has been some time since I have seen you.”
Hewitt is a big man, over six feet, and with substantial girth, although hardly in Wolfe’s class. Well traveled and urbane, he makes an engaging dinner guest, as he can converse on a wide range of subjects.
I led him directly to the dining room, where Wolfe was just getting seated. They exchanged pleasantries, and Fritz served the first course, celery and cantaloupe salad.
As usual, Wolfe set the meal topic, which, on this occasion, was the reason the Whig Party disappeared from the American political scene in the mid-nineteenth century. I long ago accepted Wolfe’s ironclad rule that business was not to be discussed during meals, but that did not keep me from becoming antsy throughout dinner. After all, according to the Daily News sketch, I resembled the mysterious “Mister Canadian,” a prime suspect in the death of Roy Breckenridge, so I was anxious that Wolfe get cracking.
Finally, after we had consumed generous wedges of blueberry pie à la mode, and Hewitt had heaped praise on Fritz, we moved to the office for coffee and Remisier.
“This is the nectar of the gods,” Hewitt said, holding up his snifter after savoring his first sip of the rare cognac. “It is almost enough to make me forget about the tragedy that befell Roy.”
“You had known Mr. Breckenridge well,” Wolfe stated.
“Well—yes, yes I had. As you are aware, I have had an interest in theater for a long time, and I first met Roy, oh, probably twenty years ago now, at a premiere party of one of the plays he produced, a period piece set at the time of the Regency in England. I had liked it very much and said so, and then he told me about his next project, a revival of Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms. That has always been a favorite of mine, and I said that if he needed any financial backing for the production, he could count on me.”
“May I assume he accepted your offer?”
“You may. He was absolutely delighted, and almost from that moment, we formed what you might call an informal partnership. In the ensuing years, I’ve been a backer of several of his productions, including Death at Cresthaven.”
“Were your financial contributions essential to the plays being produced?” Wolfe asked.
“Oh, I suppose they helped a good deal,” Hewitt said, flipping a palm, “but I never was the only backer of these productions; there always were several of us, including Roy himself. That is one of the things I liked about him: He was always willing to support his ideas with his own money.”
“Was he wealthy?”
“He certainly lived well. Speaking of money, Mr. Wolfe, I know Roy had hired you—at my suggestion—to look into whatever was concerning him at the production, and the main reason I wanted to see you is to take over his role as client. You may set whatever fee you wish. I want to see whoever did this caught and convicted.”
“The financial arrangements can wait,” Wolfe said. “How much did Mr. Breckenridge tell you about our investigation?”
“Nothing, other than that you had agreed to look into whatever was bothering him so much.”
“What I am about to tell you must remain between us, at least for the present.”
“I have been known to be most tight-lipped,” Hewitt said.
“Very well. At Mr. Breckenridge’s suggestion, Archie masqueraded as a reporter for a Canadian art magazine and—”
“So he is the mysterious ‘Mister Canadian’ the newspapers have been writing about?”
“Yes, sir, he is. And for now, we wish him to remain mysterious—and anonymous.”
“You may rely on me.”
“Had you seen Death at Cresthaven?” Wolfe asked.
“Yes, on opening night. I liked it, although not as much as some of Roy’s other productions. However, it is not always a good idea to judge the quality of a show on its premiere. I understand from others that it has since improved.”
“You stated earlier that you had no idea as to the reasons for Mr. Breckenridge’s angst.”
“That is correct. But it was obvious from a telephone conversation we had that he was extremely unnerved, which was not like the man. He always has seemed to me to be self-possessed and in control.”
“What else can you tell Mr. Goodwin and me about him?”
Hewitt poured another snifter of Remisier from the bottle I had placed on the small table next to his chair. “This will sound like a cliché, but I don’t know how else to phrase it: He lived life to the fullest. He enjoyed fine food and wine, elaborate parties—whether he was host or guest—exotic vacations, and beautiful women of all ages. He was married to three of them.”
“And also divorced three times?” I asked.
Hewitt nodded. “He certainly was not a faithful husband by most definitions of the institution of marriage, although he was surely a generous mate. He lavished furs and jewelry on his wives and escorted them to all manner of galas both here and abroad. But I always got the feeling that he saw them more as prized possessions than as cherished spouses.”
Wolfe scowled. “Do you know any of the members of the Death at Cresthaven cast?”
“A few of them. Everybody who has had anything to do with the Broadway theater world in the last twenty-plus years knows Ashley Williston, of course. She has been around the block and makes sure that she gets to know everyone she thinks can help further her career.”
“You suggest she is an opportunist?”
That brought a hearty laugh from Hewitt. “To say the least! I have often seen her at parties, buttonholing critics, editors on the newspapers, press agents, even secretaries to press agents. It has gotten to the point where people at social gatherings say they ‘got Ashley-ed’ the other night, meaning she cornered them and extolled her acting qualities.”
“You have scant respect for her abilities?” Wolfe posed.
“Actually, the woman is not bad, albeit often overly dramatic. But it eats at her that she has never won a Tony Award. I believe that she would go to almost any lengths to get one.”
“Literally?” I asked.
“Oh no, pardon my hyperbole. Chalk it up to the tongue-loosening qualities of this wonderful cognac,” Hewitt said, turning to Wolfe. “Moving on, you asked who I knew in the cast, and the only other one I’ve met is Max Ennis, who has been around even longer than Ashley.”
Wolfe paused to drink beer. “Your opinion of him?”
“A true professional. His list of credits is as long as your arm, although he has never been a star. But every producer, director, and stage manager on Broadway, and off-Broadway for that matter, knows that if Max is in the cast, they will get a solid performance.”
“Do you think either he or Miss Williston would have any reason to kill Roy Breckenridge?”
“I can’t begin to conceive it,” Hewitt said. “Unthinkable.”
“Can you suggest any other candidates?”
“I cannot. And I am not about to wait for the police to find a killer. I would like to hire you to find that individual. Let us discuss your fee, and I will pay even if you are unsuccessful, which I think unlikely.”
“I seek no money from you,” Wolfe said.
Hewitt jerked upright. “Really?”
“Really. Do you remember the two words you spoke to Mr. Goodwin when you first called here to enlist my help regarding Mr. Breckenridge?”
“I don’t think I can recall them. . . .” Hewitt said, although I did not for a moment believe him.
“Let me refresh your memory. The words were Grammangis spectabilis.”
Hewitt grinned and threw up his arms. “All right, I surrender.
I have six of them. I can give you two.”
“Three,” Wolfe said.
“These are rare beyond words,” Hewitt protested.
“As am I, sir, in my field.”
Our guest took a deep breath and exhaled. “You drive a hard bargain, sir,” he said.
“I do not think so. I considered asking for four.”
Chapter 17
“Well, you got exactly what you wanted,” I told Wolfe when I returned to the office after seeing Hewitt out. “Where do we go from here?”
“We call Inspector Cramer.”
“Why? He already suspects that I am the mystery man.”
“We are going to confirm that fact to him,” Wolfe said, finishing his beer and dabbing his lips with a handkerchief.
“Well, isn’t that just great now? Would you suggest that I pack now for my stay behind bars?”
“Archie, you know as well as I do that, sooner rather than later, your charade will come to light, and it befits us to take the initiative.”
“If I may be so bold as to remind you, this charade, to use your term, was one you agreed to after Breckenridge proposed it. This was not—repeat not—my idea.”
“Point taken. Given subsequent events, such was perhaps ill-advised. But we must live with the world as it is, not as we would wish it.”
“Very cute. I suppose that’s Shakespeare.”
“No, it comes from me. Is now too late to telephone Mr. Cramer at home?”
I checked my watch. “Nine thirty? No, he will still be up. He once told me he’s a night owl who reads a lot. Do you want him to come here tonight?”
“No—in the morning. Dial his number and I will speak with him.”
The inspector’s wife picked up, and I stayed on the line. “Mrs. Cramer, this is Nero Wolfe. Is the inspector available?”
“Just a minute, please,” she said in a calm tone. If she was surprised by the caller, it was not reflected in her voice.
“Wolfe!” he rasped, “don’t tell me that you’re pulling one of your ‘I’m going to name the killer’ stunts tonight. This is pretty damned short notice.”
“No sir, such is not my intention. I am calling to ask if you could come to my home tomorrow morning at eleven to discuss the death of Mr. Breckenridge.”
“What are you up to?” Cramer growled. “I can’t remember the last time you called me at home at night.”
“I apologize for the intrusion, sir. However, I felt I should extend the invitation as soon as possible.”
“Who else will be there with us?”
“Only Archie.”
Cramer exhaled. “All right, I’ll come, but it better be worth my while.”
“You can be the judge of that after we have spoken,” Wolfe said, and we all hung up.
“So I get thrown to the wolves, or actually by the Wolfe,” I said. My boss scowled at my cheap attempt at humor.
The next morning at eleven, the doorbell rang, and I went to the front hall to admit the inspector. He glowered but said nothing, bulling past me and heading for the office like a locomotive with a green signal. He arrived there just as Wolfe was entering after his morning session upstairs with the orchids.
“Would you like something to drink, sir? I will have beer,” Wolfe said as he settled in behind his desk.
“Of course you will,” Cramer growled, planting himself in the red leather chair as if he owned it and pulling out a cigar, which he jammed unlit into his mouth as usual. “Nothing for me, thanks. Now, just why am I here?”
“That sketch you brought us that ran in the Daily News, it was of Archie.”
“Dammit, I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” Cramer roared, rising partway out of the chair and then slamming himself back down. “This better be good, and I mean really good.”
“Hear me out, please,” Wolfe said calmly, holding up a hand as Fritz placed two chilled bottles of beer and a glass in front of him. “We were approached by Roy Breckenridge, who told us he had some unformed concerns about the show he was producing and directing. He felt he needed someone in the theater to be his eyes and ears.”
Wolfe then proceeded to describe my role and actions, as well as the events that transpired right up to Breckenridge’s death and my leaving the theater in a hurry.
The inspector’s jaw dropped, and his mouth stayed open during Wolfe’s recitation. Three times, he looked like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out. When Wolfe finished and Cramer finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting.
“I am trying to count the number of charges I could run both of you in on,” he said, spacing the words in an admirable attempt to keep from losing his well-known temper. “This is a travesty.”
“A travesty? I think not, sir,” Wolfe said. “Were we remiss in not communicating with you sooner? Perhaps. However, Archie and I have broken no laws, committed no crimes. My regret, and it is manifest, is that an individual came to us seeking help, and we failed him.”
“Nuts!” Cramer barked. “Be honest. Your biggest regret is that you lost a client—and a payday in the process.”
“Your reaction is understandable, sir, and I will not cavil. The question is: Where do we go from here? And I have a suggestion. Are you interested in hearing it?”
“Oh, what the hell!” Cramer said, throwing up his hands in disgust. “Why not?”
“Very well. It is our intention to work with the police. I believe you will agree with me that Archie is a keen observer and a perceptive interviewer. During his time at the theater, he—”
“He passed himself off as a Canadian magazine writer,” Cramer said.
“We already have stipulated that,” Wolfe said. “Are you to tell me that no detective in the employ of the New York Police Department has ever misrepresented himself in the line of duty? Archie well may be—”
“That is a totally different matter,” the inspector cut in defiantly.
“Is it? We can leave that discussion for another time. I started to say, before I was interrupted, that Archie may well be of help to you. As I mentioned earlier, he spoke at length to each of the cast members as well as to the stage manager and to Breckenridge himself. I suggest that Archie make himself available to someone in your employ—and not Lieutenant Rowcliff—for questioning.”
“Listen, Wolfe, you know that I could drag him in right now, just like that,” Cramer said, snapping his fingers.
“You could,” Wolfe conceded, “but knowing Archie as I do, I believe he would become mute under those circumstances, and you would then get nothing.”
“He might open up after he spent some time cooling his heels as our guest,” Cramer replied. The inspector set his jaw, but I could tell he was weakening. “All right,” he said. “We have got a lieutenant that neither of you has ever met, name of Sievers. I am told that he is one damned good interviewer. If Goodwin has some useful information, Sievers will get it.”
It was a strange feeling, watching the two of them discussing me as if I weren’t in the room. “Do I have any say-so in all of this?” I asked. That resulted in glares from both Wolfe and Cramer.
“All right then, put me down as eager to meet the brilliant Lieutenant Sievers,” I told them.
“Not so fast,” Cramer cut in. “Before we go one step further, I want everything kept out of the newspapers for the present, and that includes your buddy Cohen at the Gazette. I know how you love to feed him scoops, but if one word of Goodwin’s role in all this gets out, I swear you both will get hauled in.”
“Inspector, you have my word that neither Archie nor I will discuss Mr. Breckenridge’s death or Archie’s role as a Canadian journalist with Mr. Cohen or with any other member of the press at the present time,” Wolfe said.
“Just what does ‘at the present time’ mean?”
“It means that your Lieute
nant Sievers may interview Archie without any interference from me. I will not inform Mr. Cohen or any other journalist of this interview. However, if someone on the police force chooses to leak information about the meeting, such is beyond my governance and I will react accordingly.”
“If there is a leak in the department, that falls within my . . . what did you call it . . . governance? And by God, if that happens, someone will pay for it,” Cramer barked, slapping a palm on the arm of the red leather chair.
“Understood,” Wolfe said. “One stipulation: Messrs. Rowcliff and Stebbins are not to be present during Archie’s conversation with Lieutenant Sievers.” Wolfe was referring to the stuttering Lieutenant George Rowcliff, who didn’t like me any more than I liked him, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins, Cramer’s sidekick, who both Wolfe and I agreed was capable in his limited way but had always been antagonistic toward us.
“All right.” Cramer exhaled. “Any other monkey wrenches that you want to throw in before we move on?”
“This request hardly throws a monkey wrench into the works, sir,” Wolfe responded. “I merely am attempting to ensure that this meeting goes as smoothly as possible, for everyone’s sake.”
“I certainly appreciate your concern. I will be calling to let you know when we expect Goodwin at headquarters,” the inspector said, rising.
“Before you leave, I have another question, sir,” Wolfe said.
“Of course you do. Now what?”
“May I assume you and your men searched Mr. Breckenridge’s home?”
“Of course we did,” Cramer barked.
“And did you find anything of interest?”
“That’s actually two questions—so far.”
“Humor me, please,” Wolfe said. “We have been candid with you today.”
The inspector let out a protracted sigh. “What I am about to say must remain in this office.”
“Understood.”
“There were three notes, all of them folded up in the drawer of a nightstand in Breckenridge’s bedroom.”
“Indeed. What was the content?”
Murder, Stage Left Page 9
