“As your adviser, I warn you I don’t think you should be discussing these matters with this man,” Dean muttered testily. “Let’s leave, before we regret it.”
She turned to him, giving me the back of her head. “You asked to come along,” she snapped. “It was your idea, not mine, but I had a notion you might provide moral support. I know what I want to say, Elliot. If it bothers you, I suggest you go out and wait in the car.”
“I’m just thinking about you and the paper,” Dean sputtered, but we all knew he’d lost.
“I know you are, but let me go on—this is important.” Harriet’s voice had risen an octave, and her facade of coolness for the first time showed some cracks. Her hand was shaking as she flicked invisible lint from her skirt.
“Anyway,” she said, returning to Wolfe, “I own something over thirty-four percent of the stock, substantially more than any other shareholder. And I can assure you, I have no intention of selling to MacLaren—ever.”
“That leaves almost two-thirds of the shares.”
“Not really. Elliot here has three percent and Carl Bishop, our publisher, holds almost five, and I’m certain they’re safe,” she said, looking at Dean for confirmation. He gave a grim nod.
“All right,” Wolfe conceded. “Fifty-eight percent remains for which Mr. MacLaren presumably can forage. How comfortable are you about that?”
“Not very. It’s unclear how much of the remainder I can count on. My stepson and stepdaughter each control seventeen-and-a-half percent, left to them by their father, and with the price MacLaren claims he’s willing to pay, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d sell to him.”
“Might they not also sell in part to spite you?”
Harriet had regained her composure and gracefully tilted her head to one side. It was probably a mannerism she had learned as a Southern belle. It still was effective. “I don’t think so, Mr. Wolfe. Despite what I said before, I don’t want you to get the idea that our family is feuding and plotting like a bunch of Borgias, like something out of Dynasty. It’s hardly that intriguing, I assure you. But Donna—my stepdaughter, Donna Palmer—has no desire whatever to become involved in the Gazette. She runs a very successful business in Boston, and she’d like to expand into an advertising agency as well. If she sold her stock, or even some of it, the capital would give her the opportunity to grow.”
Wolfe drank beer and set the glass down. “Do you know if she’s met with MacLaren?”
“She’s been on vacation in Europe for the last two weeks; she gets home tomorrow, and I was planning to phone her then. Unless she saw him over there, I doubt if they’ve talked, but I don’t know for sure.”
“And your stepson?”
“David—David is …” She paused, searching for the right words. “He is not chairman-of-the-board material, despite the fact that he now holds the title of president. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but … well, it’s no secret that David isn’t a strong leader. He could never handle ultimate control of the Gazette.”
“And he wants that control?”
“Yes, no question. He’s had ambitions, but I’m afraid he hasn’t shown overly good judgment in critical situations. When we had that printers’ strike four years ago, you may remember that he called the head of the union a ‘cheap thug’ during a televised press conference.”
Wolfe nodded. “There was talk of a lawsuit.”
“Yes, but fortunately it blew over after the strike got settled. That’s just one example of how David handles himself under pressure.”
“He knows your feelings about his abilities?”
“He most certainly does. He also knows he’ll never get any of my holding in the Gazette. On my death, my shares will go into a trust to be administered by Elliot here, plus Carl Bishop and a man named Fitzpatrick from the Consolidated Bank and Trust Company. That fact is not widely known, and I would appreciate your discretion.”
“You have it,” Wolfe said as Dean squirmed in his chair. His face was turning fuchsia, he wanted to cut in so badly. He made a few more noises, but confined himself to groping for his mustache. I was beginning to feel sorry for the guy.
“It has always been my hope that I would eventually get David and Donna to sell their shares to the trust. And my nephew Scott, too. He has a ten-percent holding. But until this MacLaren business came up, there didn’t seem to be that much of a hurry.”
“How do your stepchildren feel about the trust?”
Harriet studied Wolfe coolly for a second, then decided to be candid.
“Donna seemed pretty neutral when I first told her about it six months ago. Of course she didn’t know then that she’d have a chance to make a lot more money—the kind MacLaren apparently is offering.”
“In either case, she’d stand to make a great deal, wouldn’t she?”
“Donna may not care about the Gazette, but she does care about money, Mr. Wolfe. She’s a shrewd businesswoman, and if I were betting, I’d give odds that she’ll sell to him rather than to the trust. I don’t like to hear myself saying it, but there you are.” She took a deep breath as Wolfe resettled himself. Maybe it was my imagination, but I was beginning to see stress lines on her regal face.
“What about your stepson? Will he sell? Indeed, has he already?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. For the last several days, I’ve been pressing him to find out what, if anything, he’s done, and he keeps avoiding me. He’s barely been in the office at all. But I’m bringing things to a head on Friday. I’ve called a special board meeting for that morning—it’s one of the reasons I have to reach Donna tomorrow. I’m going to make a plea that everyone hold onto their shares, at least for now. Although I honestly don’t know what good it will do. In some cases, it may already be too late. And I’ve asked MacLaren to come and see me that afternoon as well.”
Dean couldn’t hold back any longer. “Harriet, you didn’t tell me about MacLaren!” he rasped. “How can I function as your adviser when I don’t even know what’s going on half the time?”
“I’m sorry, I was going to tell you on the way over here, but I forgot,” Harriet said, showing no regret. “I only made the appointment this morning.”
Elliot resumed both his slump and his pout.
“You mentioned your nephew,” Wolfe said. “What part does he play?”
“Scott is the son of my husband’s younger brother, Lucas. When Lucas died, Scott inherited his holding, which is almost exactly ten percent. He’s general manager of the company now. He wants more than that, but like David, he has his limitations.”
“Such as?”
“He’s extremely ambitious, which in itself is all well and good. But Scott hasn’t got the … well, the vision, to run a large newspaper. I know that must sound arrogant, because it’s tantamount to saying that I do have the vision.”
“As you do,” Dean cut in. I resisted the urge to pick him up by the collar and deposit him on the stoop. Harriet Haverhill was some lady, but a body can take just so much grovelling.
“The fact is, except for Wilkins, the Haverhill men just haven’t been strong,” Harriet said, ignoring him. “I’d personally take Scott over David, but both their wives would make better executives than they are, particularly Carolyn—David’s wife. Now, there’s a dynamo. I sometimes wish she were my daughter instead of my daughter-in-law.”
“Does she have an active role at the Gazette?”
“No. She’s all wound up in charitable activities around town. She’s made quite a name for herself in fund-raisers, and I think David is jealous of her popularity, which I’m sure is why he’s always kept her away from any kind of role at the paper. As a stepmother, I shouldn’t be saying this, but I often wonder why she married him in the first place.”
“Back to your nephew,” Wolfe said. “Is he likely to sell to MacLaren?”
“I honestly don’t know. When I first told Scott about my plan to establish a trust, he didn’t like it at all—I believe he had always
held out the hope that someday he’d get to be chairman. I think he sensed I put more faith in him than in David. And I’m sure he was hurt that I didn’t name him one of the three trustees.”
“He’s got enough equity so that if he stayed in your camp, along with Mr. Dean and Mr. Bishop, you could maintain control of the newspaper,” Wolfe observed.
“Don’t think that hasn’t been on my mind. Together, the four of us hold fifty-two percent. By Friday I hope to know exactly where Scott stands—where everybody stands. Mr. Wolfe, you’ve asked most of the questions, you’re exceedingly good at that. Now I’ve got one: What kind of reaction have you gotten from your letter in the Times?”
“You’ve been most candid,” Wolfe began, taking a deep breath. “I’ll return that candor, although as you’ll see, it isn’t a sacrifice; I have little to lay before you. Mr. Goodwin spent much of the morning answering the telephone. We’ve had many inquiries from newspaper and television reporters, but only two calls from potential purchasers, if indeed they can be so termed. Neither of them is a likely candidate.
“It is possible, however, that more calls have come in the last hour,” he continued. “Both instruments in this room are turned off so we wouldn’t be interrupted, and Mr. Brenner will have fielded any messages. Archie, call Fritz.”
I switched on the phone, buzzed the kitchen, and got a quick fill-in. “Three,” I said, looking first at Wolfe and then at Harriet. “All from the media.”
“I have another engagement,” Wolfe said, glancing at the wall clock, which read three minutes to four. “Mr. Goodwin will keep you abreast of any major developments.” He hefted his bulk upright and dipped his chin a full half-inch. For him, that’s a flourish.
In one of those fluid motions I would have expected from a woman forty years younger, Harriet Haverhill rose, and Elliot Dean scrambled to his feet, clearing his throat and tugging on his school tie. “Thank you very much for your time,” she said to Wolfe. “I would appreciate knowing what Mr. MacLaren has to say tonight.”
“It’s very possible he will tell you himself when you meet with him on Friday,” Wolfe said, dipping his chin a second time. Score another point for etiquette. Sometimes I wish I had a video camera, to record such momentous occasions. As I ushered our guests to the hall, Wolfe boarded the elevator to the plant rooms.
Harriet gave me a smile that rated close to ten on the sincerity scale, and I got a whiff of a nice scent, although I couldn’t name it. Dean harrumphed all the way down the stairs. He was still in a snit as they climbed into the dark blue Lincoln limo at the curb. I waved from the stoop as it pulled away, but I can’t report whether they returned it because the windows were tinted. I’ll just assume they did.
Seven
I WENT BACK TO THE empty office and dropped into my desk chair. What are we doing? I asked out loud. There’s no case, and the bank balance is down over thirty big ones because of that silly ad. The owner of the Gazette comes to see us, and she doesn’t seem to know what the hell is going on with her own crazy family. Wolfe talks to her for an hour and comes away with nothing, zero. But then, what was he after in the first place? Okay, so he’s a genius and I usually can’t keep up with him. This time, though, there seemed to be nothing to keep up with. I decided he was showboating, but then I vetoed that because I couldn’t see where it was getting him.
I finally concluded that all those years up in the subtropical plant rooms, four hours a day, six days a week, had baked his brain. Having established that, I turned to the germination records Theodore had left for me and began entering them on file cards, vowing to nag Wolfe again for a personal computer so we could cut down on all the paperwork orchid growing entails. During the next hour, four more calls trickled in, two from reporters with suburban newspaper chains, one from a Connecticut daily, and a fourth from a television evangelist down in Delaware who announced in rolling syllables that he felt he was “being called to own a newspaper.” I handled the three reporters using the basic formula I’d worked up over the past few hours and assured the reverend that he’d be hearing from us, and to be patient.
“God works in many ways,” I told him.
“Amen, brother,” was his answer.
Someday I’ll learn.
When Wolfe came down from the orchids at six, I filled him in on the calls, leaving the preacher till last so I could enjoy his expression. And he didn’t let me down, breaking into one of his better scowls, accompanied by a low growl. He hates evangelists.
“What’s the program for tonight with MacLaren?” I asked.
Another scowl. “Archie, patience has never been one of your virtues,” he said, picking up his book and ringing for beer. “The program, as you refer to it, will be dictated in large measure by Mr. MacLaren’s demeanor, and by his reactions to my first few questions.” Getting the hint that the discussion was over, I ambled into the kitchen to see if I could give Fritz a hand with dinner. All I got for my effort, though, was a bunch of questions as to whether we had a new case. I ducked them, and also Fritz’s query about how much the page in the Times had cost. I was afraid that if I gave him the figure, he’d pass out on the spot, which might delay dinner.
Over lamb kidneys with green pepper and dumplings, Wolfe held forth on corporate social responsibilities in a capitalist society, and I have to admit that my contributions to the discussion were slim to none. Maybe I’d been around Fritz too much, because, despite my faith in Wolfe, I found myself starting to worry about why we were spending all this time on a non-case.
Back in the office with coffee, Wolfe retreated behind The Good War, leaving me to watch the clock and wonder whether the Scotsman was really going to show up.
At five minutes after nine, the doorbell rang. I went to the hall, and through the one-way glass I saw MacLaren on the stoop—I recognized him from his photographs—along with a guy about a head taller who looked like he’d have no problem qualifying for the Jets’ defensive line. The latter was wearing a raincoat and a scowl.
I walked back to the office doorway. “They’re coming in pairs today,” I said to Wolfe. “MacLaren’s here, and he’s got a hulk with him. Undoubtedly a bodyguard. Instructions?”
“I’m only interested in seeing Mr. MacLaren,” he answered, never taking his eyes off the book.
“As you wish, sir,” I said, in what I thought was a pretty good imitation of Sir John Gielgud. I opened the door with the chain lock on. “Yes?” I inquired mildly, through the crack.
“I’m Ian MacLaren; I’m here to see Nero Wolfe.” His voice had a healthy dose of Scottish burr and he spoke with an economy of language I found ominously nasty.
“We’re expecting you. Who’s your friend?”
“George? He goes everywhere with me.”
“Not in this house, he doesn’t. Have him wait in the car,” I said, pointing through the crack in the door at the second stretch Lincoln that had graced our curb that day. I swung the door open for MacLaren, but blocked the hulk. Okay, so opening the door was a mistake, but I really felt George would head for the limo.
Instead, he grabbed my shoulder with a beefy hand and started to bull his way in. I blocked him again, and he clipped my cheek with a right hand that knocked me back against the doorjamb. Like a lot of big guys, though, he thought one punch would be enough, and he let down his guard. Bracing my right foot, I caught him with a left to the stomach that staggered him. I didn’t give him time to recover and laid a right to the same spot, which was flabbier than I would have thought from eyeballing him. The second one buckled his knees and the third, another left, doubled him over. Both hands went to his stomach and he let out a soft little sigh.
“Stop that!” MacLaren snapped, shooting his cuffs. “George, wait in the car,” he said disgustedly. “Come to the door if I’m not out in an hour.”
George managed a groan and stumbled down the stairs as we went in. I think I damaged his ego. “Was that necessary?” MacLaren demanded as I closed the front door behind us.
We stopped in the doorway to the office. I performed the social niceties. “Ian MacLaren, this is Nero Wolfe.” Wolfe looked up, but at me, not our visitor.
“What happened to you?” he snapped.
I realized then that George’s punch had scored some points. My hand went to my left cheek and I winced from the tenderness, coming away with blood on my fingers. “Mr. MacLaren’s … uh … driver and I had a debate on the stoop as to who would be sitting in on this conversation. I outtalked him.”
Wolfe snorted as MacLaren eased into the red leather chair. “I assume Mr. MacLaren’s driver remained outside.”
“In the car,” I said, dabbing my cheek with a handkerchief.
Wolfe turned his attention to our visitor while I settled in at my desk. The press baron, whom I had in left profile, seemed to be all angles—long straight nose, pointed chin, deeply lined cheeks, a flat head covered with well-groomed dark hair flecked with white. Somehow the pieces fit together pretty well, though; I was forced to admit he wasn’t at all bad-looking, hardly an ogre. And his gray suit, while maybe not as expensive as Dean’s, was a nice fit. He studied Wolfe with a democratic smile as he crossed his legs.
“Is he going to stay?” he asked, motioning to me.
“Mr. Goodwin is always present at discussions in this room,” Wolfe said. “Anything you have to say to me you can say to him. If you have something too confidential for his ears, I cannot be bothered with it.”
MacLaren’s dark eyes swept the room. “Is it bugged?” he asked quietly.
“No, sir,” Wolfe replied. “You have my word of honor on that. We do not have tape recorders in this house, although Mr. Goodwin takes notes in shorthand. And if you were to insist that he not do so, it wouldn’t matter; he can reconstruct verbatim conversations several hours in length.” MacLaren shot a piercing glance at me and then concentrated on Wolfe.
Death on Deadline (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 2) Page 6
