Murder, Stage Left

by Robert Goldsborough

  It was too early to tell how long this relapse would drag on, but I had to find a way to put a stop to it, which would be like trying to stop a runaway semi without brakes going downhill.

  These relapses are always hardest on Fritz, who, although Swiss, is possessed of a Gallic temperament—many of his forbears were French—and is easily upset. I already knew, based on past performances, that Wolfe would be eating today’s lunch, and possible future meals, at the small table in the kitchen that is normally my breakfast spot. Where I would take morning nourishment became my problem, while Wolfe’s constant presence in the kitchen was Fritz’s problem. I went back to the office in disgust just as the phone was ringing, the house line, no less.

  “Archie, it is Theodore. Can you come up to the plant rooms right now?”

  In all the years I have lived and worked in the brownstone, I have never warmed to Theodore Horstmann, Wolfe’s plant nurse, but that makes it even, because he has never liked me, either. On those rare occasions when I have been forced to go up to the plant rooms and interrupt Wolfe during one of his sessions with the orchids, Theodore has glared at me as if I were an unwelcome invader of the inner sanctum. Now he was inviting me to make the ascent, and in a civil tone, no less.

  I walked up the three flights and entered orchid heaven, first the cool room, with its rows of yellow, red, and white-with-spots Ondontoglossomus; then the moderate room filled with Cattleyas of every color; and finally, the tropical room—Miltonia hybrids and Philaenopsis in pinks, browns, and greens. As often as I have passed through these halls, I never get used to the splendor. The rooms hold ten thousand orchids, or so Wolfe tells me. I have never counted them, so I will have to take his word, as I do on so many things.

  Finally, I arrived in the potting room, where Theodore, clad in his apron and even more grim-faced than usual, stood, hands on hips, at one of the workbenches.

  “Okay, so here I am,” I told him. “What’s the story?”

  “I asked you to come up because I knew Mr. Wolfe would be downstairs, so we are free to talk,” he said, shaking his head. “This is bad, very bad.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s the spell—he is having one of his spells,” Theodore said in a shaky voice.

  “He has had them before, as we both know all too well.”

  “Yes, but this one seems to be worse, Archie. After we were finished this morning, he said to me, ‘I do not know when I will be back up here with you, Theodore. Take care of everything; you know very well where the problems are.’ He has never said that to me before.”

  “I am every bit as frustrated as you are. Just what do you expect me to do?”

  “Talk to him. Tell him the orchids need him.”

  “But you are very good with them yourself, aren’t you? I know Mr. Wolfe places a great deal of trust in you. The flowers are not going to die because he doesn’t come up here twice a day.”

  My words failed to mollify Theodore, who continued to wear a hangdog expression like one who has lost his best friend. “I just don’t know what to do,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his hands together nervously. “I just don’t know.”

  “Look, you are well aware that these moods of Mr. Wolfe’s always pass. I am not sure how I can get him through this one quickly, but I will give it a shot.” As I went back downstairs, I tried to figure out just what that shot would be.

  Wolfe was still in the kitchen, sitting at the small table and sampling the omelet. “Fritz, I believe you are right after all,” he said with the slightest trace of an apology in his voice. “Apricot jam is indeed called for. Let us make a new omelet.”

  “Will we be eating on time?” I asked to be sociable. My answer was a stony look from Wolfe, while Fritz looked more woebegone than ever.

  “Okay, I got my answer. I’ll grab some lunch over on Ninth Avenue.”

  “Hey, Archie, I haven’t seen you for a while,” said Herman, the owner and also the counterman at his fast-food joint, named Herman’s, of course. “Looking for a culinary change of pace, eh?”

  “I’m looking for one of your unequaled corned beef on rye sandwiches along with a glass of milk.”

  “In other words, the usual. What’s going on in your world?”

  “Murder, mayhem, double-dealing, and so on.”

  “In other words, also the usual. Well, the latest here is that I lost my longtime cook a week ago.”

  “Lenny? What happened—did he get a better offer?”

  “He seemed to think so. He decided to open his own place up in Mount Vernon, an Italian joint, including pizza.”

  “But Lenny’s Jewish.”

  “He is not about to let that stop him. What’s really troubling, though, is that he just is not a good businessman. I will give him a year, eighteen months at the most, before he gives it up and goes bankrupt.”

  “Think he’ll end up coming back here, trying to get his old job?”

  Herman shook his head. “I doubt it, too much pride. Besides, I like the guy I’ve got working in the kitchen now, name’s Ernest. He’s good, he’s fast, and he doesn’t complain like Lenny did.”

  “So it seems to have turned out to your advantage. After I finish this wonderful sandwich, I have to go home and face a boss who is on strike, an unhappy chef, and an orchid gardener who is in a funk.”

  “Sure you don’t want to hang around a little longer?” Herman said. “Can I tempt you with a slice of apple pie à la mode?”

  “Sold—bring it on!”

  Chapter 29

  I was in no hurry to get back to the brownstone, but I knew I could not put off my return indefinitely. I walked over to the Hudson and watched one of the Circle Line cruise boats loaded with tourists about to take off for its narrated trip around Manhattan, and part of me wished I were on board with them, taking in the wonders of our city from its rivers on a splendid afternoon. But I had work to do back on Thirty-Fifth Street, so I turned and headed home.

  When I got back, I went straight to the office, where Wolfe sat at his desk perusing an orchid catalog that had come with the morning mail.

  “Interesting reading you got there?” I asked as I sat at my own desk. No answer.

  “Do I have any instructions?” Still no answer.

  “Well, this certainly is an intriguing situation. Here we have a detective who claims to be a genius and who supposedly is working on a high-profile case, yet he does not seem to be working at all. Or am I missing something? Is that great brain, at this very moment, percolating and about to solve the murder of one of America’s most renowned theatrical producers?”

  Not a word from Wolfe. Just then the phone rang. “At last, maybe some excitement,” I said to the only other person in the room, who remained engrossed in looking at pictures of orchids.

  The caller was Lon Cohen. “Come on, Archie, give us something on the Breckenridge case, for God’s sake, anything at all, if only to help out your friend Cramer. Every paper in town, including our own, is calling for his scalp, along with all of those civic groups that rail against crime, corruption, and the usual governmental ineptness.”

  “I’ve told you before that we are not in business to bail out Cramer when he is under fire. And if I had anything I could feed you, I would, but Nero Wolfe currently is in hibernation. Sorry, but there you have it.”

  “So I am supposed to order up a story that has the word ‘hibernation’ in it, and in the middle of summer, no less.”

  “Sorry, but as Walter Cronkite likes to sign off on his nightly news show, ‘and that’s the way it is.’”

  The response I got from Lon is not worth sharing with you—and is one of those words not permitted on Cronkite’s network news show.

  “Lon sends his very best regards,” I said to the sphinx who sat at his desk reading. Finally, I got what I thought was a bright idea. “I have two words for yo
u,” I told Wolfe. “They are Grammangis spectabilis.” With that, he actually stirred, then set the catalog down and rose, walking out of the office to the elevator.

  I waited ninety seconds, then called the plant rooms. When Theodore answered, I asked, “Is Mr. Wolfe up there with you?”

  “No, Archie,” he said in a dismal tone. “He is not here.”

  So he had gone to his room, presumably to get away from me, and also to avoid both Fritz and Theodore. This was indeed serious. He skipped lunch, although he had sampled the omelet, so he had taken at least some nourishment. The tests would be, first, whether he showed up in the plant rooms at four, and second, whether he came down for dinner.

  Wolfe did not make it to the plant rooms, further upsetting Theodore, but he did ride the elevator down and walk into the office at 6:15, settling in behind his desk. He did not, however, ring for beer, so we still were in crisis mode. I pivoted and turned to him, prepared to make a smart remark, when I was stopped cold.

  He had leaned back in the chair, hands interlaced over his stomach. His eyes were closed and his lips pushed out and in, out and in. He was somewhere else, in a place he probably couldn’t describe himself. I took a deep breath and looked at my watch. For some reason, years ago, I had begun timing these episodes, and some of them went on for close to an hour. I did not care how long this one continued, I only knew the relapse had ended, and we were about to get back to business.

  For the record, Wolfe’s trance lasted a few seconds over forty-seven minutes. He jerked upright, blinked, and looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

  “Confound it, Archie, I have been a lackwit,” he said with a snort. “The truth was right in front of me, and I steadfastly ignored it. I stand before you chagrined.”

  “Except that you are sitting,” I said. That crack earned me a scowl, as well it should have.

  “Call Lewis Hewitt. Call Saul. See if they both can come tonight at nine,” he said. “Use any means at your disposal to get them here.”

  As it turned out, I did not have to put my skills of persuasion to a test. Hewitt had planned to spend a quiet evening at home with his wife, and if Saul had anything planned, he didn’t say so.

  Dinner was veal birds in casserole, and after we had polished off two large helpings each, Wolfe lavished praise upon Fritz, who actually executed a slight bow. Apparently, any hard feelings over the day’s earlier gastronomic controversy had dissipated, and order was restored in the brownstone.

  Saul and Hewitt arrived promptly, no surprise. “These meetings are getting to be a habit, and I shall miss them,” Hewitt said with a grin. “It is always stimulating to be around your boss.”

  “I can think of a few other adjectives to describe him,” I replied.

  “Aw, Archie, you love this life, and you know it,” Saul said as we settled in the office awaiting Wolfe’s arrival. He came in, dipped his chin slightly in greeting, and sat, ringing for beer.

  “Saul, take whatever you want for yourself from the serving cart. You also will find a bottle of Remisier and a snifter there that you can serve to Mr. Hewitt. I am sure he will not refuse it.”

  “You are correct,” Hewitt said with enthusiasm as Saul mixed himself a scotch on the rocks and delivered the cognac.

  “Thank you both for coming,” Wolfe said as he opened the first of two bottles of beer Fritz brought in. “I have reached a conclusion regarding the death of Mr. Breckenridge and the poisoning of Mr. Ennis.”

  “Really! And what is that conclusion?” Hewitt asked.

  “Later,” Wolfe said, holding up a hand. “I want all the members of the production’s cast here, along with Mr. Sperry. Preferably the night after tomorrow.”

  “I can try,” Hewitt said, “but I am not sure they will come, or at least not all of them.”

  “You can tell them I plan to reveal a murderer, and that there is a strong likelihood there will be a police presence. An absence on anyone’s part would be seen as suspect.”

  “Who else will be here?” Saul asked.

  “Besides you and Mr. Hewitt, I plan to invite Inspector Cramer.”

  “Where do I fit into all this?” I asked.

  “We will get to that,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Hewitt can start calling tomorrow morning.” He then laid out detailed plans for one of what Cramer has referred to as “Wolfe’s damned charades.” The inspector may not like these sessions, but they invariably result in the identifying of a culprit.

  This time, however, I was not so sure of success. I saw where Wolfe was heading, and I had finally begun to catch up, albeit belatedly, with his line of reasoning, and maybe you have, too. But I thought the scenario he laid out was shaky at best and filled with potential pitfalls. I did not have a better idea though, so I was hardly in a position to complain.

  Chapter 30

  The next morning at 10:15, I answered a call from Lewis Hewitt. “Here is the rundown, Archie,” he said. “I got lucky in one respect, and I managed to reach everyone Mr. Wolfe wants to have at the brownstone tomorrow night. I was not so fortunate in getting them all to agree, however.”

  “Okay, give me the news, both good and bad.”

  “The good first: Brad Lester, Steve Peters, and Melissa Cartwright all agreed to come without a great deal of complaining. Brad seemed a little irritated, Steve said he would postpone a dinner with his agent, and Melissa told me she couldn’t understand why were having such a meeting, but that she would show up.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Believe it or not, the individual I thought would be the most difficult to persuade, Ashley Williston, actually agreed to be present, but she was not the least bit happy about it, and she made that crystal clear to me. ‘I am only doing this out of respect for Roy,’ she said, ‘but I believe it to be nothing more or less than an ego trip for Mr. Nero Wolfe, who obviously has an insatiable hunger for publicity.’”

  “An interesting comment from one who has her own insatiable hunger for publicity. Mark her down as less than delighted,” I said. “You have not mentioned Hollis Sperry or Teresa Reed.”

  “For good reason. They both flatly refuse to be a party to this show. Sperry told me he thought the idea of a mass gathering was ‘just plain stupid’ and that it would not accomplish a thing. And Teresa Reed said she was insulted at having been asked. By the way, Archie, is Mr. Wolfe on the line with you?”

  “No, it is just me.”

  “Good. Here is what Mrs. Reed said: ‘If the police have not gotten anywhere, why does that fat, pompous, and egomaniacal detective think that he can get anywhere? Let him put on his sham trial; I will not be there. The man is nothing more than a mountebank.’”

  “Wolfe has been called all of that and worse,” I said. “How did you leave things with our two recalcitrants?”

  “I told them both that they would undoubtedly be hearing from Mr. Wolfe or someone from his office.”

  “Good. We will get back to you. Consider us set for tomorrow night unless you hear otherwise.”

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms and rang for beer, I filled him in.

  “Call Saul,” he said. I did, and he answered on the first ring. “Mr. Wolfe is on with me,” I told him.

  “Here is the situation,” Wolfe said. “All but two of our guests have agreed to come tomorrow. Mr. Sperry and Mrs. Reed have refused the invitation. I want you to visit each of them and apply a combination of reason and pressure. Normally, this would be a job for Archie, but under the circumstances, such is clearly impossible. However, I trust you to be every bit as persuasive as our Mr. Goodwin. Lewis Hewitt knows where they can be reached. Archie, give Saul his telephone number.”

  I did, and Saul said, “Do not worry; they both will be at your place tomorrow if I have to put leashes on them and drag them along behind me. I will call later to confirm their attendance.”

 
; “I like his style,” I told Wolfe, who turned back to his book, apparently satisfied that the situation was in hand.

  At 4:15, I answered the phone in the office. “They both will be at the brownstone tomorrow night,” Saul said.

  “Do we want to know just how you accomplished this?”

  “It was not as hard as you might think. I visited Sperry first. He has got a nicely furnished three-room flat on East Eighty-Fifth Street in Yorkville. At first, he did not want to let me in, but I wore him down by saying he should at the very least hear me out. We sat in his living room, and I told him that he was the only one who had refused to see Mr. Wolfe.

  “That surprised him. He said ‘Do you mean Ashley has really agreed to be part of this nonsense?’ I made it clear to him that she did not object. Of course I had not mentioned Teresa Reed’s resistance, but I figured that what he didn’t know would not hurt him. Finally, he threw up his hands and said he would be there, but he made it clear that he didn’t like it.”

  “Nice job. Was the cantankerous Mrs. Reed more difficult to persuade?”

  “What do you think, Archie? She and her husband have a cozy place in a four-story walkup on Bedford Street in the Village. As you recall, her husband is the house manager at one of the Broadway theaters, and he was at work, overseeing a matinee. She refused to let me in, so we ended up jawing out in the hall. I told her—this time it was the truth—that she was the only holdout among the Cresthaven bunch, and that her absence would be seen as extremely questionable behavior.

  “‘What do I care if it seems questionable?’ she snapped at me. ‘If that Wolfe character doesn’t like it, he knows exactly what he can do. Nobody is ever going to tell me where I have to be or what I have to do.’ I then played the card I had hoped to avoid, Archie: I told her it was very likely that a member of the police department would be present and would surely be intrigued by her absence.”

  “How did she react to that?”