Wolfe winced at the figure of speech. “Are the Arlen Company and Mr. Demarest committed to Mr. MacLaren?”
“Oh, you know about them? As far as I know, they are. On several occasions through the years, Harriet tried to buy them both out, but no sale. They each said they liked the idea of owning part of a newspaper, which really means they were waiting for a big-bucks buyer to come along someday. They knew damn well that in a closely held setup like the Gazette, their relatively small holdings could turn out to be critical.”
“To your knowledge, had Mrs. Haverhill had recent conversations with either party?”
“Not that I was aware of,” Bishop said. “I think she’d pretty much given up on them.”
“How would you describe her frame of mind yesterday?”
“I didn’t really see much of her—just small snatches here and there. I was in her office for a few minutes in the early afternoon, around two-thirty, to talk about a problem we were having with one of our distributors over in Jersey. At the time, she seemed fairly cheerful, although maybe a little distracted.”
“Whom had she met with by then?”
Bishop took the unlit pipe out of his mouth and looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see … I know she and Donna had talked first thing in the morning, and then just before noon she had David up to her office for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. Then she had to be at the Waldorf for a big benefit luncheon—she was on the executive committee and sat on the dais. I was with her right after she got back, and Scott was due in to see her around three, I think.”
“During your visit, did you ask how her earlier meetings had gone?”
“No,” Bishop said, running his hand through his hair. “I figured I’d get the whole story from her after she met with MacLaren. I usually stay at the paper until at least seven, sometimes seven-thirty.”
“Was Mrs. Haverhill in the habit of confiding in you?”
“I guess you could say that. I wasn’t as close to her when it came to purely financial matters, say, as Elliot Dean was, but on almost anything to do with the running of the paper, she asked my advice. We worked very closely and very well together.”
“Do you know any of the particulars of her meetings with her family members and Mr. MacLaren?”
“I haven’t really had much time to talk to any of them, certainly not to MacLaren—I haven’t even seen him. But from what I gather, all three of those kids had pretty much made up their minds to dump the stock. David’s the only one I discussed it with, though. I caught him in a sober moment this morning, and he said he and his stepmother really got into it yesterday. Claimed she accused him of being a traitor to the family.”
“Does that sound like her?”
“Well … yes … actually I can picture her saying that,” Bishop replied in his gravelly tone. “I don’t know how much you saw of her when she came to see you, but Harriet can—could—be one tough cookie when the occasion warranted. She had a temper, an explosive one, although she knew how to use it effectively. I once half-jokingly accused her of turning it on and off like a faucet.”
“Have you spoken with Mr. Dean since the murder?”
Bishop gave Wolfe a thin-lipped smile. “You’re determined to call it that, aren’t you? Well, by God, if you’re right—and I don’t think you are—you’ll get my full cooperation in running her killer down. As to Elliot, yes, I’ve seen him once, also just for a couple of minutes. We really didn’t have much time to talk. As you can appreciate, the Gazette has been a madhouse all day.”
Wolfe nodded. “I was curious as to why Mr. MacLaren chose to visit him after his meeting with Mrs. Haverhill.”
“I guess that’s one you’ll have to ask Elliot yourself; it didn’t occur to me to bring it up,” Bishop said, glancing at his Rolex. “I really have to be going. As it is, I’m already late for a dinner party, although it’s the last thing I feel like doing right now. I know everybody there’s going to want to talk about Harriet.” He took a deep breath and got to his feet, slipping his pipe back into its pouch.
“Mr. Bishop, you spoke of cooperation a moment ago, and you’ve already indulged me liberally by persuading the Haverhill family members to see me. Now, if I may prevail further on your good nature, I also would like to meet with Mr. Dean once more. As you may know, he was here with Mrs. Haverhill, and was not the least bit happy about it. I would appreciate your asking him to see me again, preferably Monday, or Tuesday at the latest.”
“No problem,” the publisher said. “Elliot will grumble, but that’s his nature. In the long run, all he cares about is protecting Harriet. I’ll call him tomorrow and do a little arm-twisting.”
Wolfe thanked Bishop and I escorted him to the hall, helping him on with his raincoat and holding the front door. I went back to the office and found Wolfe’s chair empty, which was fine with me. That meant he had gone to the dining room, and I headed in the same direction. For more than an hour, my stomach had been primed for Fritz’s pork tenderloin, and I wanted to keep it happy.
Twelve
WITH THE EXCEPTION OF MY out-of-town sojourns with Lily Rowan, I religiously read two newspapers, the Times and the Gazette, all the way through every day, and I also usually skim the Daily News and the Post. Maybe it’s because I’ve been around Wolfe for so long, but I’ve always preferred getting my news from papers rather than television. It’s a little like favoring meat and potatoes over crepes.
If anything, my newspaper reading increases when we’re on a case, and I guess Harriet Haverhill’s death qualified, despite the lack of a fee or a client. That’s why I was up earlier than usual Sunday, and that’s also why I grabbed the Gazette first instead of the Times, my usual starter.
The story was on page three, along with the up-to-date photo of Wolfe that I’d given Lon a few months back. The headline read “NERO WOLFE CALLS HAVERHILL DEATH MURDER,” and it spread over four columns. I won’t bore you with the whole shebang, but in essence it said that “the famous private detective” was convinced that what the police termed a suicide was really homicide. Lon had neatly worked in most of Wolfe’s comments from their telephone conversation and also quoted Inspector Cramer, who insisted the police had no reason whatever to suspect foul play. He covered himself, though, by adding that “We, of course, will fully investigate any developments, however unlikely, that might arise.” Ungrammatical, but he made his point.
David Haverhill also was quoted, saying that the grieving family, while it appreciated Wolfe’s interest, felt that his stepmother’s death was indeed a suicide and hoped that the unhappy event wouldn’t be turned into a circus.
I read this while sitting at my usual spot in the kitchen with breakfast and coffee. Fritz, who’d been bustling around getting a tray ready to take up to Wolfe, waited until I finished and then cut in. “Archie, they’re calling again.” He was miserable. “Before you came down, there were three—the Times, the News, one from television—all wanting to talk to him about that article in the Gazette. Also, a Mr. Bishop called to say that someone named Carolyn would be joining the others here this afternoon. The messages are on your desk.”
I thanked him and tried to take the worried look off his face by saying that all this publicity was good for business in the long run, but Fritz saw right through me. He knew damn well we didn’t have a client—it said so right there in the Gazette—and as long as that was the situation, he would go right on moping.
Moping or not, I let him keep fielding calls from the kitchen and said I’d return them later, then took both papers to the office, where I finished reading them at my desk. The piece about Wolfe was only one element in the extensive coverage the Gazette gave Harriet Haverhill. There was also an editorial praising her leadership, a long biographical article with a lot of pictures, and a piece describing the funeral service that would be held Tuesday at Riverside Church.
The Times ran a long article about her on their obituary page, plus an editorial, even more glowing than the Gazette’s, in which they
called her a “worthy, honest, honorable competitor who did far more than her share to raise the standards of journalism, both in New York City and across the nation.”
After I finished, I dialed Wolfe’s bedroom. “I assume you’ve read the papers,” I said.
“Yes,” he grumped.
“Cheer up. That’s the best picture of you they’ve ever run. What does it take to satisfy you?”
“The coverage was adequate. What do you want?”
“First, Carolyn will be coming with the others today. Second, the phones are ringing again—from the Times and a bunch of others. Fritz is taking them in the kitchen. Anything special you want me to say?”
“Just reiterate my conviction that this is a murder. If they want specifics, as they surely will, you must say that I have none. As to any other questions they may ask, I trust that your combination of experience, intelligence, and ingenuity will suffice.” He hung up before I could react to that last bit, which I think was supposed to be a compliment, but with Wolfe, you’re never completely sure.
Fritz came in with seven more messages, and I started on the callbacks, which took me almost an hour. They were all singing the same song; of course: Why did Wolfe contend she was murdered? And they all came away empty-handed, which made them crabby. In fact, a couple were downright rude, particularly a TV reporter, known for his charm and Grecian profile, who, when he found he wasn’t getting anywhere with his questions, demanded to know in an enraged shout if this was a slimy publicity stunt on Wolfe’s part to generate more business. “Hasn’t the fat guy got any shame at all?” were his last words before I slammed down the receiver. Another TV newshound, a woman, announced that she and a crew were coming over immediately to interview Wolfe, and she didn’t seem to hear me when I said he wouldn’t see them. When she and two guys with their gear actually did show up an hour later, they exercised their thumbs on our bell for ten minutes and finally gave up, settling for some exterior footage of the seven steps that probably would be featured on the eleven-o’clock news.
By the time I’d returned the last call, which was to a paper in New Jersey, I was tired—make that very tired—of the members of the press, and I made a mental note to tell Lon that reporters ought to be forced to take lessons in civility.
At ten-forty, Wolfe came down from his room carrying the Times Magazine and the “Week in Review” section, both of which he always read in his office before doing the magazine’s crossword puzzle. He sat, rang for beer, and started in on the “Week in Review.” After five minutes, I swiveled and faced him. “Do you want a fill-in on the morning’s calls, or are you totally satisfied that I took care of everything in my usual superb fashion?”
Wolfe sighed and set the paper down. “I suppose I’m going to hear a report whether I care to or not. Very well, get on with it.”
I gave him a quick rundown on most of the conversations, but I switched to verbatim when I got to the really obnoxious ones, mainly to enjoy the expressions on his face. He scowled, frowned, and made some acid observations about the state of journalism in America, particularly the TV brand. He was in the middle of a diatribe about photogenic morons when the phone rang.
“Here comes another one,” I groaned. “You can listen in and get a firsthand earful.” Wolfe grimaced but picked up his receiver.
“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“Yes, Mr. Goodwin, my name is Audrey MacLaren. May I speak to Mr. Wolfe, please?” The voice was smooth, cultured, and British.
I looked at Wolfe and he shook his head but stayed on the line. “I’m sorry, he’s occupied right now. I’m his confidential assistant, however; can I help you?”
“Well … yes, if you would relay a message to him. You may recognize my name—I’m the former wife of Ian MacLaren, and I just read the story in today’s Gazette about his investigation. He’s right, Harriet Haverhill was murdered. I know who did it, and I would like to hire him to prove it.”
Wolfe’s eyebrows went up, and mine probably did too. I looked at him for instructions and got an almost imperceptible nod. “I will certainly pass your message along,” I said. “Assuming Mr. Wolfe finds it of interest, when would you be available to come and see him? Are you in New York?”
“Yes, I live here now—Connecticut, that is. And I could come at any time that is convenient for Mr. Wolfe.”
“What about tomorrow, say at”—I paused and Wolfe held up three fingers—“say at three o’clock?”
“That would be fine,” she said, and I gave her our address and took her phone number.
Wolfe and I cradled our receivers together. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said. “What do you make of that?”
He was frowning. “We need to know more about this woman—before tomorrow.”
“Saul?”
“Yes, get him. See if he can come today.”
As I said at the beginning of this narrative, Saul Panzer is a free-lance operative, the best in the business. What I didn’t mention is that for Wolfe he’d drop anything else he had going. Despite that high regard, however, he might not be able to help us on such short notice, given the demand for his services.
But we were in luck. Saul answered on the second ring, and when I told him Wolfe wanted to know if he was available, he said he’d be right over. Twenty minutes later, I opened the front door, and Saul, in his standard-issue rumpled brown suit and flat cap, stepped over the sill, winked, and strode into the office.
“I appreciate your coming,” Wolfe said, reaching across the desk to shake hands, which says a lot about his feelings for Saul.
“No problem,” he answered, dropping into the leather chair and nodding at my offer of coffee. “Things have been a little slow the last few days.” I didn’t believe that, but it sounded good.
“As you surely know,” Wolfe said, pressing his palms down on the desk blotter, “I am interested in the death of Harriet Haverhill.”
Saul nodded and Wolfe went on. “I am convinced she was murdered, and I’ll be happy to elucidate if you wish.”
“Not necessary,” Saul said.
“Very well. What do you know about a woman named Audrey MacLaren?”
Saul took a sip of coffee and screwed up his already wrinkled face. “First wife of that newspaper guy who’s been trying to grab the Gazette,” he said. “English. Got dumped by MacLaren when he married a society babe from out West—Palm Springs, I think. After the divorce, which was maybe three years ago, she moved here from London. She had a couple of kids by him, never remarried. If I remember right, she lives someplace over around Stamford or Greenwich.”
One corner of Wolfe’s mouth turned up slightly, which showed amusement but was more than anything else a salute to Saul. As I’ve mentioned, both Wolfe and I pride ourselves on being thorough newspaper readers who generally keep up pretty well with current events and names in the news, but we’re simply not in the same league with Saul Panzer, who always, seems to know more than the World Almanac, People, and Who’s Who in America combined.
“Saul, I’m seeing this woman tomorrow at three,” Wolfe said. “I realize this is absurdly short notice, and I’ll certainly understand if you decline, but I’d like before our meeting to know a number of things about her.”
“Fire away.” Saul didn’t pull out a notebook because he doesn’t use one; he keeps everything filed away upstairs, which seems to work just fine.
Wolfe finished his coffee and pushed the cup away. “Mrs. MacLaren is coming here tomorrow because she says she knows who murdered Harriet Haverhill and wants to hire me to unveil him. This reeks of flummery, perhaps a puerile attempt to implicate her former husband, for whom I gather she holds no warm regard. But the woman has piqued my curiosity.
“What I want to learn is something of the circumstances of their divorce. Were the proceedings initiated by her husband, as your comments about the woman from Palm Springs would seem to suggest? What are the custody arrangements? What kind of settlement did she receive? F
or instance, does she maintain any kind of equity in his publishing empire? And does she have a residual bitterness toward Mr. MacLaren? Now, if you find this kind of investigation as distasteful as I do,” he said, making a face, “perhaps you’ll want to decline.”
Saul shook his head. “I’ve gotten into lots seamier stuff than this. I could just about give you the answers to some of your questions right now, but they’d be at least partly speculation, and that’s not what you want. I should have something by tomorrow at this time. I’ll check in with Archie,” he said, thanking us for the coffee and rising to go.
I saw him to the door, made a crack about how I bluffed him out of the biggest pot in our last poker game, and went back to the office, which Wolfe had vacated. My watch read eleven-fifty, meaning, this being Sunday, that he had gone to the kitchen to strategize next week’s meals with Fritz. That left me to straighten up the office for our afternoon visitors.
Thirteen
COMPARED TO WOLFE’S RIGID SCHEDULE during the week, Sunday in the brownstone is downright free-wheeling. Sometimes he goes to the plant rooms to putter, sometimes not. And the meals are pretty much catch-as-catch-can after breakfast. This day, partly because guests were coming at two, Wolfe ate early in the kitchen with Fritz—the two of them boldly experimented by adding pompano and scallops to their New Orleans bouillabaisse recipe and pronounced the operation a success. That was more meal than I felt like, so I made a pastrami-on-rye sandwich that I had with a glass of milk in the office while reading the accounts of Saturday’s Mets-Dodgers game at Shea, a sixteen-inning dandy won by the Mets on an inside-the-park home run.
Starting about one-thirty, I caught myself looking at my wrist every three or four minutes, so I went upstairs and got busy with such matters as deciding which suits to take to the cleaners tomorrow. I was back at my desk scrubbing the typewriter keys with a little brush at five after two when the doorbell rang.
Death on Deadline (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 2) Page 10
