With our meeting ended, I opened the safe and peeled off a grand in used fifties and twenties, handing them to Saul and saying I’d get Ann Barwell’s address for him. “Have a wonderful trip,” I said at the door, “and be careful how you drive when you get there. You know what they say about those Southern cops.”
He smirked, gave me a thumbs-up, and walked out, taking the steps two at a time. I closed the door and watched through the one-way panel as he strode down the sidewalk, thinking how I’d be jealous of his little jaunt south if I didn’t know that Lily and I would be spending a week in the Virgin Islands in less than a month.
After Wolfe ascended to the plant rooms, I called Lon, who wasn’t wild about letting me have Ann Barwell’s address in South Carolina. I assured him that she wouldn’t be harassed or abused, and promised that if she reported any ill-treatment I would hand him all my winnings from the next five poker games. That drew a horselaugh, given my overall record at our Thursday-night sessions. He relented, though, and after putting me on hold for a few seconds came back with the information, which I relayed to Saul. “I’m on the first flight to Atlanta tomorrow,” he told me. “You should be hearing from me sometime in the afternoon.” I wished him well and repeated my warning about Southern police.
The rest of the day wasn’t worth mentioning, other than an argument Wolfe and I had at dinner over whether college athletes should be paid. I said they should, that it would end the sham, while Wolfe held out for tougher policing of regulations. I scored myself the winner, because I don’t believe it’s possible to ever return big-time college sports to a truly amateur level.
On Thursday morning, I was on edge, mainly because nothing was happening. After he came down from the plant rooms at eleven, Wolfe seemed totally unconcerned about anything as mundane as murder and clients, choosing to divide his time among the London Times crossword puzzle, Webster’s Unabridged, and a fresh book, Revolution in Science, by J. Bernard Cohen. I’m sure I was getting on his nerves, and I know he was getting on mine, so at eleven-forty I got up noisily from my desk, stretched, and announced that I was going for a walk, which got no reaction from Wolfe.
The morning was tough to improve on. Yesterday’s rain had cleansed the air, proving that in the spring, even Manhattan can smell terrific. I walked east all the way to Lexington, then turned north. By the time I’d hoofed it to Forty-second, my tension had pretty well dissolved, although I kept turning the case over. Had Wolfe overplayed it this time? Outwardly, I was more or less agreeing with his murder theory, but in conversations with myself, the idea was hard to swallow.
As far as my gut feelings about the so-called suspects went, I wasn’t too wild about any of them as people, with the possible exception of Bishop. Lon liked and respected him, and I had to score that fairly high on the plus side, even though I had a little trouble warming to him. But maybe that was because of my feeling that he didn’t completely trust me. Dean was a pompous, self-important windbag, but beyond that, he seemed relatively harmless. As for the Haverhills, Donna was easy to look at, but a little driven for my taste. David and Scott both needed a trip back to the factory for more parts. Neither one was fully equipped, in brainpower or in manners, but that hardly qualified either of them as a trigger-puller. And there was Carolyn: tough, cooler than iceberg lettuce, and as unaffected as a TV game-show host. But a killer? My built-in hunch-meter gave her long odds.
That left MacLaren. If I were to pick someone I’d like to hang a murder on, he would lap the field. He seemed like a longshot himself, though; he had nothing to gain. The Gazette was as good as his—at least if he scooped up nephew Scott’s shares. And what about Scott? Had he really been offered the publisher’s throne? If so, would we ever know it? Maybe Saul was learning the answer to that from Ann Barwell right now.
After I’d played the whole mess through a couple more times, I woke up and found myself all the way up at Bloomingdale’s with nothing to show for the last hour-plus except perspiration and a bag filled with improbable suspects. I thought about grabbing a glass of milk and a sandwich at a little place I like on East Fifty-eighth before I remembered that oyster pie was on Fritz’s lunch menu. My watch read twelve-forty-four, which meant that if I wanted those oysters, I’d have to flag a cab. I stepped to the curb and started waving my hands like a trader on the commodities exchange.
The oyster pie was easily worth the fare, even if you throw in the aggravation of having to listen to the cabbie gripe the whole trip about how messengers on bicycles are the greatest menace on the New York streets. He turned around to talk to me so often that I was ready with my own nomination as the number-one menace on the streets.
Back in the office after lunch, Wolfe settled in with his book while I picked at some paperwork but mainly kept looking at my watch. When the call came, I almost knocked my milk glass over reaching for the phone. “Saul,” I said, and Wolfe picked up his instrument while I stayed on.
“How was your trip?” he asked.
“Uneventful. The flights were actually on time, the drive was a snap. I just got finished talking to Ann Barwell. She wasn’t exactly tickled to see me, but she let me have a few minutes.”
“And?”
“And I got what you wanted. She says Harriet did talk about giving Scott the brass ring.”
“Indeed? Details, please.”
I like to think I’m at the head of the class when it comes to repeating conversations verbatim, but Saul is no slouch himself, and he gave a word-for-word account while I got it down in shorthand. Wolfe interrupted once or twice, but otherwise just listened.
“Well, that’s it,” Saul said after he unloaded. “I wish there was more.”
“Satisfactory,” Wolfe told him for the second time in a week. “Stay the night if you wish.”
Saul answered that he might, but that he’d be back in New York no later than noon tomorrow.
“Okay,” I said, swiveling to face him after we’d hung up. “What’s next, world famous and reclusive detective?”
“Chapter four,” he replied, gesturing to his book, which he picked up and hid behind. And there he stayed, pausing only to ring for beer and consume two bottles’ worth. At four, he got up without a word and walked out, taking the elevator to the plant rooms.
Part of me has always been convinced that Wolfe keeps thinking about cases when he’s up playing with the orchids, but when I asked him about it once, he insisted his four hours on the roof each day represents a total divorce from work. After what happened that afternoon, though, I’m more convinced than ever that part of me has it right.
I was in the office reading the Gazette when he came back down at six, got behind his desk, and rang for beer. I mentioned something about a page-one article on a possible new round of nuclear-disarmament talks, and he said he’d read it later. I went back to the paper and in a few minutes commented on another story I thought would interest him, but got no answer. I figured he just wanted to be left alone to read his book, but when I looked up, I realized I was wrong. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his hands laced over the locality of his belly button. His lips were pushing out and in, out and in, and when he’s doing that, he might as well be on Saturn. It could last five minutes or fifty-five, but when he came out of it, things would start to happen. I settled back and waited, timing him just because I always have.
For the record, this one took a fraction over sixteen minutes, which makes it one of his shorter séances. The lips stopped moving abruptly and he opened his eyes wide. “All of them!” he snapped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“All of them. I want all of them here—tonight.”
“Negative,” I said. “Start again.”
He glared. “Confound it, you were the one who craved action.”
“True, but this won’t get it. You know very well that these people, most of them anyway, resent you and all the publicity you’ve brought to Harriet’s death.”
“Do you have a b
etter suggestion?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m all for getting them here, you know that, but I vote for tomorrow night. If we try to bulldoze them into coming on such a short notice, they’ll automatically refuse. Matter of pride. We need a little more time. Let me tell you the approach I’d use.”
Wolfe started to put on a pout, but to his credit, he listened as I outlined a strategy. After I finished, he closed his eyes again. “All right,” he said after several minutes, “but start calling them tonight.”
“And you’ll want Cramer, of course?”
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” he said, picking up his book in one hand and his glass of beer in the other. As I turned to begin making plans, I realized that I didn’t have the slightest idea who Wolfe was going to finger. And I was damned if I was going to ask him.
Twenty
AS IT TURNED OUT, MY approach worked. Wolfe and I agreed that the best way to pull everybody in was through Carl Bishop. He was still at work at six-thirty Thursday night and picked up his own phone.
“Mr. Bishop, this is Archie Goodwin. Nero Wolfe has asked for a meeting here tomorrow night, at which he plans to divulge information about Mrs. Haverhill’s death. He hopes that you will come and bring Mr. Dean, David, Carolyn, and Scott Haverhill, and Donna Palmer as well.”
Bishop’s answer was a snort. “Look, Goodwin, we’ve gone along with Wolfe so far, but this is stretching things. If what he has to say is so important, why can’t he come out with it right now?”
“Hold the line,” I said. I cupped the receiver and swiveled. “He wants to know why you can’t unload now.”
Wolfe compressed his lips. “I’ll talk to him,” he grunted.
“Mr. Bishop, good evening. What I have to say is of utmost importance, and I want to relate it to all of you together.”
“Enough is enough,” Bishop rasped. “I see no reason to come or to ask any of the others to. At the risk of sounding pompous, we’re all busy people.”
“I appreciate that, and I promise not to prolong the evening unnecessarily. I think you will find it time well spent.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not coming,” Bishop said firmly. “As for the others, you’re of course free to ask them yourself, but—”
“Mr. Bishop, if all of you are not present here tomorrow night at nine, I will release a statement to the New York Times promptly on Saturday morning.”
“What kind of statement?”
“No, sir, that won’t work. The only way you will find out is to read the Sunday editions of the Times. Let me assure you that what I have to tell them is newsworthy.”
“You’re bluffing!”
“Bluffing? Hardly. Bear in mind that I already have spent in excess of thirty thousand dollars on that Times advertisement. Is that the action of a bluffer?”
That stopped him. For about fifteen seconds, although it seemed longer, all I could hear was the sound of deep breathing. “All right,” Bishop said with gravelly reluctance, “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee that I can get them to show up.”
“If they’re not all here, there will be no meeting and the statement will go to the Times.”
Bishop signed off by saying he’d call the others, and he agreed to get back to us no later than ten tomorrow morning. “MacLaren next?” I asked, and Wolfe nodded.
He, too, was still at his office. His lackey Carlton answered the phone and made a feeble stab at finding out what I wanted. “Just say Nero Wolfe needs to discuss an urgent matter with him,” I said brusquely. I was put on hold, and while I waited, Wolfe got on the line.
“Hello, Wolfe,” MacLaren barked. “What is it now?”
“Mr. MacLaren, at nine o’clock tomorrow night, in my office, I will be discussing the murder of Harriet Haverhill. Her stepchildren, her nephew, David’s wife, Mr. Bishop, and Mr. Dean will be in attendance. I invite you to join us.”
“I told you before that I won’t stand still for some cheap attempt to dump this at my feet,” he said, his voice rising with every syllable. “And I warn you, Wolfe, I’ll sue if you try it.”
“I should think you would want to come to protect your interests and defend your reputation,” Wolfe remarked dryly. “I guarantee that the evening will be eventful, and it may well have a marked impact on the future of the Gazette.”
MacLaren growled. “What time did you say?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“I’m supposed to be at a dinner party.”
“You would be well advised to regret that invitation.”
“I’ll see,” MacLaren huffed, hanging up.
“That man’s got a real problem with manners, doesn’t he?” I said.
Wolfe made a face. “He’ll be here.”
“Three-to-one you’re right. What’s next?”
“Call Mrs. MacLaren and invite her.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to tweak MacLaren’s nose by surprising him with his ex-wife when he walks in. But that’s hardly your kind of stunt.”
“My client has every right to see how I am earning my fee,” he answered—somewhat stiffly, I thought. Before I could come up with a fitting response, he got up and headed to the kitchen to monitor Fritz’s progress with dinner. Or else he was just trying to get away from me. Anyway, I tried Audrey MacLaren, using our signal, but a bleary female voice said she was out for the evening, so I left a message.
That concluded the working portion of my day. Normally on Thursdays I forgo dinner at home and head for Saul’s and the weekly poker game, but it was canceled because he’d taken Wolfe’s offer to spend the night in South Carolina, so after dinner I cleaned my guns and sipped a glass of milk while Wolfe read his book and then watched a Public Television program on the history of the Jewish people.
When I slid out of bed at seven-fifteen on Friday, I was glad there hadn’t been a poker game. I’d needed my rest for what was sure to be a long day. At breakfast in the kitchen, I briefly laid out the program for Fritz, which got him all pumped up; he saw the end of a case, which also meant a fresh infusion of money.
I was at my desk a little after nine when the phone rang. It was Audrey. “Mr. Wolfe had asked me to call you,” I told her. “He’s having several people over tonight to talk about Harriet Haverhill’s death, and he knew you’d want to be here.”
“Will he name a murderer?” she said breathlessly.
“He hasn’t shared that information with me, but it’s not a bad guess.”
“I suppose Ian will be there?”
I told her he would, along with the people from the Gazette, but I insisted I didn’t know anything beyond that. She said she would come, and I told her to be here at eight-forty.
Next on the list of chores I’d gotten from Wolfe the night before was to call Lon Cohen. “Got a minute?” I asked when he answered.
“Yeah, but not much more. Shoot.”
“There’s going to be a get-together here tonight, maybe you’ve heard.”
“Carl told me about it when he came in. He’s not hot for the idea, but I gather he’s trying to round up the others now.”
“Satisfactory. Mr. Wolfe thinks it would be good if you came too, but keep that to yourself. You can sit in the front room while the session’s going on.”
“Wait a minute,” Lon said, alarm creeping into his voice. “Are you trying to tell me something? Like maybe that …” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m not trying to tell you anything, except that my boss issued the invitation. Attendance isn’t compulsory.”
“Hell, you know damn well I’ll be there.”
“But without telling anyone,” I stressed. “Come at eight-thirty.”
He sounded a little dazed but said to count him in.
I dialed Inspector Cramer’s number. The flunky who answered told me he was tied up indefinitely, and I insisted that it was important. He covered the receiver and I could hear muffled voices before a familiar one came on.
“Goodw
in? What do you want?” Good old Sergeant Purley Stebbins.
“I was trying to reach your boss, at the request of my boss. He wants to invite him—and you—to a party.”
“What kind of garbage is this?” Purley isn’t one to waste words.
“Mr. Wolfe plans to talk about the murder of Harriet Haverhill. Her relatives are going to be there, along with Carl Bishop, Elliot Dean, and the great Scottish press baron himself.”
Purley hissed a word that I wouldn’t use in polite company and groaned. “One of those.” He obviously was referring to Wolfe’s round-up-the-suspects-and-name-the-murderer evenings, several of which he has attended over the years. “I’ll pass the word to the Inspector,” he said, hanging up. No one seemed to want an extended conversation with me these days. I buzzed Wolfe in the plant rooms.
“Yes?”
“Audrey is a yes,” I reported. “Lon’s coming too, and understands he has to stay in the front room. I called Cramer and got Purley, who grumbled but said he’d tell him about it. We’ll probably be getting a call from him soon. I haven’t tried Saul, because there’s no way he could have gotten back yet from the Carolinas.” Wolfe muttered something that sounded like “Very well” and banged his receiver without giving further instructions, so I went to the kitchen to review some of the details of the evening with Fritz.
The day passed slowly and without noteworthy activity, unless you count Cramer’s call, which came at eleven just after Wolfe had gotten settled in the office. I answered and stayed on the line.
Death on Deadline (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 2) Page 17
