Murder, Stage Left

by Robert Goldsborough

  “At first, she acted—and I do mean acted—as if she did not give a damn who was going to be there, but I saw that her resistance was beginning to weaken, so I moved in for the kill, so to speak. ‘If you are guilty of killing Roy Breckenridge,’ I told her, ‘by all means, you should stay away from the meeting. The police will come calling on you soon enough. And if you are innocent, why not show up and find out who the murderer is?’”

  “You must have majored in psychology somewhere along the way,” I told Saul. “What did she say to that?”

  “For several seconds, she just stood there in that dim hallway, her face screwed up and her hands on what passes for her hips. Finally, she sighed as if shouldering the world’s burdens and allowed as to how she would make every effort to be there.”

  “Do you think she will show?”

  “No doubt about it. I’d lay ten to one.”

  “I don’t recall you throwing odds like that around very often.”

  “Archie, in the unlikely event that the woman does not make an appearance tomorrow night, I will go down to the Village and bring her back, forcibly if necessary.”

  “Better watch out. She seems like the type who could be a tigress.”

  “Maybe, but despite my size, I have been known to get somewhat fierce myself.”

  “I do not doubt it for a minute. But as you know, I abhor violence in all but extreme cases.”

  “I certainly do. I promise that I will try to restrain myself and not rough up the lady too much.”

  “Thank you for that. By the way, the next time I see you, once again you won’t see me.”

  “Not immediately, anyway. But the evening promises to be an interesting one, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I can hardly wait.”

  When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six, I summarized the events of the afternoon. After ringing for beer, he said, “Satisfactory. Get Inspector Cramer.”

  “He may have gone home. After all, he does have a life.”

  “Try him at work first, and then, if necessary, at his home.”

  I was spared the second call in a week to the Cramer household when the inspector answered his office phone and barked his last name. I nodded to Wolfe, who picked up his instrument and identified himself.

  “Lord, now what?” Cramer demanded.

  “I have invited the members of the cast of Death at Cresthaven to my home tomorrow night, sir, along with the production’s stage manager. I propose to identify the individual who poisoned Roy Breckenridge. I felt you might want to be present. We will gather at nine.”

  Silence followed for thirty seconds, ending with a prolonged exhale. “Care to tell me who you have fingered?” Cramer asked in a tense tone.

  “I do not, sir. That must wait until tomorrow.”

  “Of course it must. Ever the showman, aren’t you?” Cramer fumed. “When in doubt, be as dramatic as possible. You have all the makings of a good Broadway director.”

  “I doubt that,” Wolfe replied. “In such a role, I would be far too demanding for the tastes of the players, and in the process, I would surely bruise a great many fragile egos.”

  “I won’t argue that. You don’t exactly have a light touch, do you?”

  “I did not call you so we could exchange verbal fusillades, sir. I felt it both honorable and respectful to extend an invitation. If you do not want to accept, that certainly is your prerogative.”

  Another extended pause. “I will be there, and I will be bringing Sergeant Stebbins with me.”

  “He is, of course, welcome to be present,” Wolfe said evenly, although he was not expressing my feelings. Purley Stebbins and I have a long history, as I alluded to previously, and it is not a history I care to dwell upon.

  Chapter 31

  As is always the case when Wolfe is about to stage one of his shows, my day moved very slowly, and I invariably found myself on edge. When I sat that morning at my table in the kitchen eating ham and scrambled eggs and reading the New York Times, Fritz hovered over me like a mother hen minus the clucking. “He seems much better today, Archie. When I took his breakfast and his Times up to him, he actually chuckled about something on the front page. Chuckled!”

  “The worst is over,” I told him. “You probably know we are having visitors tonight, including the police.”

  “I had guessed as much,” Fritz said. “I know his moods, and sometimes I feel that I know what he is thinking.”

  “I am not surprised. You have that kind of sensitivity.”

  “Are you all right, Archie?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “These days when he . . . when he does his—what do you call it?—his deductions, they are hard for you, aren’t they?”

  “I didn’t realize it showed. But yes, it is the waiting all those hours that gets to me. None of this bothers him in the least, though. He behaves as if this is just an ordinary day filled with beer, books, crossword puzzles, and orchids—and your superb meals, of course.”

  Fritz turned away to begin working on one of those superb meals while I read every article on page one of the Times and tried to figure out what it was that made Wolfe chuckle.

  After breakfast, I took a cup of coffee into the office and polished off some correspondence Wolfe had dictated the day before, placing it in a neat stack on his desk for signing. I looked for something else to occupy my time, but finally got reduced to cleaning off my typewriter with the little brush that came with it. That took care of a whole twenty minutes. I had lugged five shirts and a suit to the cleaners just yesterday, so they would not yet be ready to be picked up. The orchid germination records were current, and all the bills had been paid.

  I was reduced to taking a walk, hardly an imposition on a sunny August morning in Manhattan. Because my last stroll had taken me west to the Hudson, this time I went in the opposite direction, across town toward the East River. As often as I have prowled the streets, avenues, and byways of this old Dutch island, I invariably learn something new each time.

  On a block in the East Forties that I had traversed many times, I became aware of a narrow storefront I had not previously been drawn to. It was a model railroad store in which two electric trains in the front window operated on tracks that ran through a miniature town complete with trees, stores, a barbershop, a factory, a mountain with a tunnel, and a depot. As a kid back in Ohio, I had a model train that ran in a loop under our Christmas tree, but it was nowhere near as elaborate as this.

  Intrigued, I stepped inside and was greeted by a short, bald man wearing a vest over an open-collared shirt. “Greetings, is there anything that I can interest you in, young man?” he said, peering over rimless glasses that had settled halfway down his ruddy nose.

  “I was just passing by and noticed those trains running in your window. Very impressive. Has this store been here long?”

  He laughed. “In fact, I opened up shop almost nine years back, but until a month ago, I had never put an operating layout in the window. It has done wonders for my business, I can tell you. I was a fool for not thinking of it earlier. Fortunately for me, it is never too late to learn.”

  The proprietor then regaled me with a series of stories about the joys of owning model trains. He even tried, without success, to sell me an engine that he said was a scale model reproduction of the steam locomotive that had hauled the Twentieth Century Limited, the luxury train Lily had once ridden with friends to see an opera in Chicago.

  I finally disentangled myself from the verbal grip of the eager and enthusiastic shopkeeper, but when I stepped out onto the street, I realized that for the last half hour or more, I had not once thought about tonight’s activities. I headed back to the brownstone feeling rejuvenated and ready for whatever awaited.

  With Wolfe out of his funk and back at work, Fritz bustled ar
ound with enthusiasm, preparing lunch, planning for dinner, and making sure the liquor cart in the office was well stocked for the evening’s visitors. I assumed Theodore had perked up as well, now that Wolfe was back on his schedule up in the plant rooms.

  At eight thirty, as planned, Saul and Lewis Hewitt arrived, and the four of us went over the evening’s program. Wolfe was unusually amiable, while Hewitt expressed concern about the presence of Cramer and Stebbins, and Saul exhibited what I would call guarded optimism.

  “Mr. Cramer will no doubt play the curmudgeon,” Wolfe said, “as is invariably the case during these sessions. But I would not be overly concerned about his behavior. This is part and parcel of who the man is. You cannot change his stripes, and it would be folly to attempt such.”

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. The evening had begun.

  Chapter 32

  Wolfe left the office for the kitchen, Saul went to the front door, Hewitt remained in the red leather chair usually reserved for the client, and I took my post in the alcove for one last time.

  Cramer and Stebbins arrived first, both lumbering into the office looking like they could chew nails by the bucketful. “Oh, you’re . . . Hewitt, right?” Cramer asked, skidding to a stop. “Where the hell is Wolfe? Oh, never mind, I know,” he said, slapping his forehead with a palm. “He likes to make a grand entry.” Purley Stebbins sneered but said nothing. He has always excelled at sneering. If either of them wondered where I was, they did not remark on it.

  The bell rang again, and Saul was off once more to play doorman. He returned with Teresa Reed, who wore her own brand of a sneer. “You, you’re the top cop, right?” she said, pointing a bony index finger at Cramer. “What are you doing here, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “I am the top cop only in the Homicide Division, Mrs. Reed,” Cramer said, showing remarkable reserve. “I am present as an observer. And this is Sergeant Stebbins.”

  “Observer, hah! Don’t give me that nonsense. You are really here to make a pinch, and I will bet the one you pinch is that phony Canadian magazine writer. What I would like to know is why you let that Nero Wolfe do your work for you?”

  Cramer’s face turned as red as the inside of one of Rusterman’s rare filets, but he said nothing.

  By now, the doorbell was getting a workout. Saul brought in a grim-faced Hollis Sperry, then a timid-appearing Melissa Cartwright and a smiling Brad Lester, the latter making a snappy entry and seeming outwardly happy to be present. Steve Peters was right behind him, shooting the cuffs on his sport coat and looking as though he would rather be somewhere else. Then, after an interval of at least three minutes, the bell rang yet again. Saul escorted Ashley Williston in, and the first lady of the American stage, at least in her own mind, showed even Lester how to make an entry, looking left and then right, one arm out in a general greeting. She probably had been across the street in a taxi or maybe a limo, making sure all the others had entered before her. She was clad in a black sheath and black patent pumps, and she wore a string of pearls that looked like the real McCoy.

  Saul was the picture of efficiency, seating our guests as planned: The women occupied the front row, Melissa seated nearest to Saul, who would be at my desk, then Ashley in the middle and Teresa Reed on her right.

  The second row of chairs had Steve Peters on the left, Lester in the middle, and Sperry on the right. Cramer and Stebbins sat in the third row but both looked like they were ready to spring. Saul went behind Wolfe’s desk and reached under it to push the buzzer.

  Wolfe walked in, detoured around his desk, and sat, surveying the assemblage. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “I do not believe it necessary to tell you why you are here.”

  “What I don’t get is why they are here,” Hollis Sperry rasped, turning in his chair and jabbing a thumb in the direction of Cramer and Stebbins.

  “They are Inspector—”

  “I know damned well who they are, you don’t have to tell me!” the stage manager shot back. “I have been questioned, more than once I might add, and I am damned sick of it.”

  “I believe there will be no more mass interrogations after this evening,” Wolfe said. “As to the presence of the police, these gentlemen are present at my invitation and remain at my sufferance. Does any one of you object?” He looked at each of the six, none of whom spoke.

  “Very well. Would anyone like liquid refreshments? Mr. Panzer will serve you.”

  “Drinks at a time like this? What utter nonsense,” Teresa Reed sputtered. “This is not a cocktail party, unless I have been badly misled.”

  “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use something,” Sperry said. “I’ll have scotch on the rocks. From my last visit here, I know you pour a top-notch label of the stuff.”

  “Mr. Sperry’s endorsement is all that I need to hear,” Brad Lester said. “I will have what he’s having.”

  Saul looked around, but there were no other takers, so he went to the serving cart to pour two scotches while Fritz slipped in with beer for the host.

  “I realize this is the second time each of you has been here,” Wolfe said, “and I appreciate your patience.”

  “It is so nice to know we are appreciated, Mr. Wolfe,” Ashley Williston said in a stage voice oozing sarcasm, “but I find this gathering to be totally unnecessary. I believe everyone in this room knows the scenario: Poor Max Ennis, for whatever reason, poisoned Roy and then tried to take his own life.”

  “Nonsense!” Teresa Reed spat. “I simply do not understand why everyone in this room, and I include the police, seems to avoid discussing that so-called magazine writer from what has proven to be a fictional Canadian arts magazine. Tell me why it is so difficult to locate this individual.”

  Wolfe considered her and spoke. “Mrs. Reed has a valid point. The time has come to bring Mr. Alan MacGregor into the picture.” He ran a finger along one side of his nose, my cue to enter the stage.

  And what an entry it was. As I stepped into the office, every face swiveled toward me.

  “That is him, that’s the one!” Teresa shrieked, standing. “I knew that this guy was a phony from the start. His answers were much too pat when I asked him why he didn’t have a Canadian accent and where he was from.”

  “Where has he been hiding all this time?” Brad Lester asked. Now everyone was on their feet, and most of them were talking over one another.

  “So now we have our man,” Ashley Williston said, clapping her hands and turning toward Cramer. “Arrest him.”

  “Enough!” Wolfe said. “The individual all of you know to be Alan MacGregor is my longtime associate, Archie Goodwin. Now, will everyone please be seated?”

  “Mister, you have got plenty of explaining to do over this,” Hollis Sperry said with his trademark scowl.

  “Which I will,” Wolfe replied as everyone quieted down and got settled. “Roy Breckenridge came to me seeking my aid in identifying the cause of what he said was a miasma that seemed to be permeating the atmosphere around his production. He and I devised a stratagem whereby Mr. Goodwin would pose as a magazine writer in an attempt to discover the source of this taint.”

  “In other words, he was a spy,” Ashley said.

  “If you choose,” Wolfe said.

  “And MacGregor, or rather, Goodwin, was not successful in his assignment, was he?” Sperry said.

  “No, sir, he was not. Obviously, his work was cut short by the death of Mr. Breckenridge.”

  “Just what was the cause of this—what did you call it—miasma?” Lester asked.

  “Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter, and to my own lack of perspicacity,” Wolfe said.

  “What the God’s name is all that supposed to mean?” Sperry demanded.

  “Mr. Breckenridge was not altogether candid and forthcoming when he came to me for help,” Wolfe said. “He was more than a little vague as to the essen
ce of the unease he claimed was permeating the production, but it is to my shame that I did not press him for specifics. Had I done so, he likely would be alive today. However, it was only after his death that it became apparent the threat was not some vague aura hovering over the theater, but rather a most specific threat to the man himself.”

  “Will you please get to the point?” Ashley Williston urged. “It appears obvious to me, and probably to the others here, that you like to hear yourself talk, but it is possible that we are not enamored of your voice.”

  “It is always helpful to be reminded of one’s foibles, madam, and I will take your comments into consideration,” Wolfe said. “As I started to say before you chose to admonish me, the police discovered some notes in Mr. Breckenridge’s home after his death.”

  “Three to be exact,” Cramer said, “printed with ink in block letters on plain stationery with no fingerprints except Mr. Breckenridge’s own.”

  “The contents of all three messages were essentially the same,” Wolfe went on. “One read ‘If you do not cease with your sinful behavior, you will pay and pay dearly.’ The others were almost identical.”

  “Pretty dramatic stuff,” Lester observed with a nervous laugh.

  “Melodramatic,” Wolfe corrected. “As I said, the other two missives contained essentially the same message. It is fair to say they unnerved Mr. Breckenridge.”

  “So they were sent to him by his killer,” Sperry said.

  “They were not,” Wolfe demurred.

  “So is it possible that Mr. Breckenridge sent them to himself?” Melissa asked.

  “No, it is not.”

  “Then just who did write these nasty little notes, or do you even know that?” Teresa Reed demanded.

  “I do, madam. It was Max Ennis.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brad Lester said. “You are telling us that Ennis wrote threatening notes but that he did not kill Roy?”

  “Precisely.”

  “That makes no sense at all.”

  “He has got a point,” Cramer said. “If you are actually going somewhere with all of this, can’t you speed it along?”