“So it is indeed possible that Mr. Beardsley may be the reason that automobile drives through your neighborhood.”
“By God, you could be right, you probably are!” Clay said, banging his fist on the arm of the chair. “That hadn’t occurred to me.” He seemed somehow pleased at the realization.
“I believe you have voiced your concern to Mr. Cohen about another individual,” Wolfe said, saving what he considered to be the most unpleasant discussion for last.
“Hah! Dear ex-wife number three, a soon-to-be over-the-hill opera singer and the biggest single mistake of my life. We don’t want to leave her out.”
Wolfe drew in a bushel of air and exhaled slowly. “Serena Sanchez, I believe.”
“Correct. You said earlier that my relationship with Millard Beardsley was one of ‘mutual distaste.’ It’s nothing compared to our distaste for each other.”
“Strong words.”
“Strong feelings,” Clay replied. “If I never see that woman again, it will be too soon.”
“Do you consider her a legitimate threat to you?” Wolfe asked.
“Well, she certainly hasn’t been the one phoning me, but then, the caller likely isn’t any one of those others who could be out to get me anyway, but rather a representative. Back to your question: With that temper of hers, she’s definitely a threat. You may not know this, but years ago in Spain, she shot a man.”
“I have heard something about that,” Wolfe said. “What were the circumstances?”
“Some creep was following her around, or so she told me, and she plugged him when he started to grab her one night out on the street. The guy recovered, and she never got charged. The Spanish court gave her a pass—self-defense, they ruled.”
“Not an altogether unreasonable ruling.”
Clay shrugged. “Maybe. But she has said on occasion, and in public, that she would like to kill me.”
“Hyperbole?”
“Once you’ve, uh, shot somebody, it seems like it would be just that much easier to do it again,” Clay said.
“Perhaps,” Wolfe replied. “You have been writing your Gazette columns for many years now, and—”
“Seventeen, to be exact,” Clay smirked, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Is it accurate to say that in those seventeen years, you have alienated many people, including the five we have been discussing?”
“Without a doubt,” the columnist said, still smirking and clearly pleased with himself.
“After all these years of stirring the emotions and incurring the enmity of many of those mentioned in your columns, why do you think that you are now receiving threats?”
Clay turned both hands palms up. “Who knows? Bear in mind, uh, I’ve gotten threats before, although admittedly not as pointed as these have been. Maybe it has something to do with that slimy copper Tobin getting out of jail. The calls started coming after his release.”
“That would explain Mr. Tobin,” Wolfe said, “but not the others.”
“Sorry, but I don’t have any answer,” Clay said. “Do you have any suggestions as to how I can protect myself?”
“You already have rejected one of them,” Wolfe replied, “and that is to enlist the police as protectors. You could, of course, hire a private service that provides bodyguards; there are several in the city. Archie?” He turned to me.
“Del Bascomb’s agency is as good as any around town, although there are a number of other good ones,” I said.
“Mr. Goodwin can provide you with a list. But I must say this, Mr. Clay: If one individual is determined to kill another, there is very little to prevent the occurrence if the perpetrator does not care whether he or she is caught.”
“So, uh, that’s it?” Clay said, levering himself upright.
“Yes, sir, that’s it,” Wolfe said.
Cameron Clay shuffled down the hall toward the front door, with me close behind. I took his hat and coat off the rack and handed them to him.
“Somehow, I was expecting more from your boss,” he told me as he slipped the coat on. “I’ve been hearing for years that he’s a genius.”
“I would agree with that assessment, but he would never claim to be a miracle worker,” I said.
Clay nodded grimly. “That’s what I need all right, a miracle,” he muttered, going out into the cold night.
Chapter 6
“Well, what do you think of the great columnist?” I asked as I returned to the office.
Wolfe looked up from his book. “Pah! The man is living in a fool’s paradise. He thinks nothing of insulting people daily on the pages of a newspaper that has a circulation in the hundreds of thousands.”
“Over a million,” I corrected.
“All right, over a million. Yet he seems totally unprepared for someone who apparently threatens him with death, a threat he claims to be taking seriously. What should he expect? The only surprise is that this did not happen to him much sooner.”
“Point taken. At the risk of flattering you, I am impressed that you were so patient with this … this scandal-monger.”
“I agree, Archie, that Mr. Clay is hardly a paragon, and also hardly a journalistic exemplar. Were it not for Mr. Cohen and his request, I would have rejected seeing the man.”
“How serious do you think the threat on his life is?”
“I have no way of knowing. Mr. Clay certainly has made enemies of some formidable individuals. Were I to try ranking these five in the order of the danger they pose to his life, I would lead with the disgraced former police officer.”
“Tobin.”
“Yes. Mr. Clay played a major part in destroying that officer’s career, and few things are worse for an individual than to be forced out of a job in disgrace. Although his was a career that should have been terminated, so in one sense, the columnist performed a public service.”
“Care to continue with your rankings?” I asked.
“After Captain Tobin, it becomes more problematic,” Wolfe said. “Each of the others, with the exception of Miss Sanchez, had pecuniary interests that had been threatened by Mr. Clay’s reportage.”
“Pecuniary … as in money?”
“As in money,” Wolfe confirmed. “The livelihoods of Mr. Andrews, Mr. Stokes, and Mr. Beardsley were all potentially imperiled by Mr. Clay’s writings in the Gazette. Which of them had the most to lose?” He raised his shoulders slightly and let them drop. “Without knowing more about their portfolios, I cannot say, but each certainly would have breathed easier with Mr. Clay out of the picture.”
“How do you feel about Serena Sanchez?”
“I was about to pose that question to you, Archie. What are your thoughts about her?”
Years ago, Wolfe got it in his head that I was an expert on women, a species he claims almost total ignorance of. No matter how often I have told him of my own lack of understanding in that area, he continues to insist that I possess knowledge of the secrets of feminine behavior.
“Of course, I have never met the lady, but based on what I have read and heard, she is a firecracker. Taking into consideration that shooting incident in Spain some years ago, I would say that she probably does not have it in her to plan a calculated, thought-out killing. She seems more the mercurial type, the kind who would react in the heat of the moment. I would associate her with a spur-of-the-moment crime of passion.”
“Worded in a most dramatic fashion, Archie, but you confirm my initial impression of her.”
“Glad I could be of help. But when all is said and done, what did we accomplish tonight?”
“Very little, if anything,” Wolfe conceded. “Mr. Clay came to us ostensibly seeking counsel, but he was reluctant to accept any of our suggestions. He flatly refuses to request aid from the police, and I very much doubt that he will follow our advice and hire bodyguards, althoug
h with his salary, I am sure he could easily afford the expense. For one whom claims to be under siege, he seems blithely unconcerned about the potential danger he may well be in.”
“That struck me as well,” I said.
“What did you think of the man’s physical condition?” Wolfe asked.
“He certainly does not look to be in fit shape, does he? He probably smokes too much, which may account for his cough, and he almost surely has got a drinking problem, his complexion is that of someone who does not take very good care of himself. I will tell you this: If I were a life-insurance agent, I sure as hell would not issue the guy a policy.”
“What I find most troubling is that I am not sure what he expected from us,” Wolfe said.
“Maybe he hoped we would invite him to move into the brownstone.”
Even though I was trying to be funny, Wolfe shuddered at the prospect of having Clay around. “I feel we have fulfilled our obligation to Mr. Cohen,” he said. “Will you call him in the morning and report the substance of our meeting with this controversial columnist?”
I said I would and went up to bed as Wolfe turned back to his book.
Chapter 7
The next morning, when I phoned Lon and told him about our session with Clay, he sighed in exasperation. “Dammit, Archie, I’m sorry to have wasted your and Mr. Wolfe’s time. I don’t know why Clay wanted to see you if he wasn’t about to take any action to protect himself. The man is as stubborn as a mule, as you now have seen firsthand.”
“Yeah, he is pretty bullheaded, all right. But then, maybe that’s one of the traits that make his column the Gazette’s most-read feature.”
“Maybe so,” Lon responded halfheartedly. “I’m going to talk to our editor-publisher about getting some sort of police protection for Cameron, or at least surveillance in his neighborhood.”
“Your boy is really going to love that.”
“No doubt,” Lon said, ringing off.
We heard nothing about or from Cameron Clay for the next several days, although I did start reading his column more regularly. I still didn’t like his surly tone, but I was clearly not his typical reader.
One morning, just after Wolfe had come down from the plant rooms, the doorbell rang and Fritz went to answer it. He came to the office door wearing a frown. “Inspector Cramer is on the stoop, and he looks angry. Should I let him in?” he asked.
I turned to Wolfe, who scowled. “Very well, Archie,” he said, which signaled that I was to be the doorkeeper.
“Good morning, Inspector, it’s nice to see you on this brisk winter morning,” I said, swinging the door open. “It has been a long time since you’ve graced us with your presence.”
“Not long enough,” he growled, shunning my offer to hang up his coat and hat and steaming down the hall to the office. He made for the red leather chair without uttering a word and planted himself, chin sticking out. The thickset inspector wore his usual scowl, and his bulk, while not in Wolfe’s league, filled the chair.
Wolfe looked at him with raised eyebrows but said nothing.
“I assume that you know why I’m here,” Cramer spat.
“I confess that I do not,” Wolfe said evenly. “But I suspect you are going to enlighten me.”
“You’re damn right I am! What’s all this about you telling that obnoxious Gazette columnist that he should get himself private bodyguards? Why didn’t you let us know that he’s in danger? Last time I checked, we were the official law enforcement agency in this city. Has there been a change that I’m not aware of?”
“Inspector, I hardly feel it is my place to call the police every time someone comes to me claiming he is imperiled.”
“It would have been a courtesy,” Cramer fumed, “as if you know what courtesy means. I get this call from your pal Cohen at the Gazette, asking that we keep watch on Cameron Clay’s brownstone in Chelsea because he’s been getting threatening telephone calls. So one of my men goes to see Clay to let him know that his place is under surveillance, and the newshound blows his stack, saying that ‘I told that damned Nero Wolfe that I didn’t want the police getting involved. Go away!’”
“Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said, ignoring the slur about courtesy, “it is true that Cameron Clay came here seeking my advice as to how to protect himself because of threats he had been receiving. I proposed a private security service only after he had vehemently rejected my first suggestion, which was that he should inform the police about these threats. It appears that he and the department have enmity for each other.”
“I am by no means a fan of Clay and his column,” the inspector said, “but that would not influence me regarding his protection.”
“He has been very hard on the police department in his writings,” Wolfe commented.
“Without doubt. I understand from Cohen that one of the five individuals Clay suspects of making those calls is Mike Tobin, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. Clay’s columns played a big part in Tobin’s downfall, and as far as I’m concerned, that was a good thing. I may not like Clay in particular or his columns in general, but off the record, I like Tobin even less—or I should say not at all. He was a cancer in the department, and it would not have bothered me to see him serve a longer sentence than he did.
“What puzzles me, though, is why you spent time counseling Clay,” Cramer continued. “He’s not a client, is he?”
“He is not,” Wolfe replied. “I saw him as a favor to Mr. Cohen. Now that I have answered your question, I will pose one of my own: Does it appear that someone is stalking Mr. Clay?”
“Not that my men have been able to discover. We know that he claims a sedan has been driving slowly down his street with some frequency, but we haven’t seen it.”
“It is possible that a police presence on the street has driven the so-called stalker away,” Wolfe suggested.
“Maybe. We are using unmarked cars, of course, but we are aware that all of the cars are easily identified by those who make a habit of avoiding the law.”
“Perhaps the telephone calls to Mr. Clay are empty threats, meant to cow him, although if that is the desired effect, I doubt it will work,” Wolfe said. “He does not appear to be easily cowed.”
“I suppose the threats might be serious,” Cramer said. “Lord knows, the guy has made enough enemies over the years. And if somebody does get him, all hell will break loose around town, and you know it. I can just see the headlines now, in the Gazette as well as in all the other papers: POLICE FAIL TO PREVENT MURDER OF CRUSADING COLUMNIST! or something similar.”
“The papers tend to be protective of their own, which is hardly surprising,” Wolfe remarked.
“And I am all for a free press,” Cramer said, holding up a hand as if taking an oath. “The papers and their reporters can be a real pain in the behind sometimes, but I’m smart enough to know that we need them.”
“I agree that they are vital to the fabric of our society, Mr. Cramer. Back to Clay. If anyone is bent upon killing him, as he seems to believe, there is little anyone can do to prevent it unless he agrees to live permanently in isolation and under guard, a highly unlikely occurrence.”
“You’re right, of course,” Cramer muttered. “We can’t force him to be cautious; it probably runs against his nature. Well, I’ll just prepare for the worst.” He got to his feet and went down the hall to the door, with me following in his wake. I bid him a good-bye but got no response as he left the brownstone and went down the steps to a black Ford sedan that idled at the curb.
“Well, as usual the inspector left here an unhappy man,” I told Wolfe, “but at least this time you are not the cause of his unhappiness, as is so often the case.”
“Mr. Cramer finds himself in a bind,” Wolfe said. “A high-profile private citizen claims he is in peril, and now it is on the record that the police are aware of the situation. If something does happen to Mr.
Clay, the department will be held accountable.”
“But the police can argue that they got no cooperation from Clay in their attempts to protect him,” I put in.
“They can and they probably will, but if Mr. Clay is harmed or worse, how effective do you think their argument will be? If the inspector can suggest potential newspaper headlines, so can I, and here is one: LAME POLICE EXCUSE IN DEATH OF COLUMNIST: HE REFUSED OUR AID. As contentious as Mr. Clay has been, the public sympathies would doubtless be overwhelmingly with him in the event of his death, and the department’s defense of their actions would be seen as ineffective, if not downright irresponsible.”
“You are actually making me feel sorry for Cramer and the department.”
“Their position is a difficult one,” Wolfe said. “Knowing what I do about Mr. Clay, I would not be surprised to learn that he is enjoying the department’s discomfort.”
“Maybe so, but I can’t imagine that Clay can be enjoying his own discomfort, knowing that someone is out to get him.”
Wolfe made no reply, turning to an orchid catalog that had arrived in the morning mail. I knew that he had had enough of Cameron Clay and his predicament, and did not consider it any of his business. That meant we were in total agreement.
Chapter 8
That night, Lily Rowan and I went to the Rangers game at Madison Square Garden, followed by a late supper at Rusterman’s, the superb Midtown restaurant that had been founded by Wolfe’s late and close friend, Marko Vukcic. Lily and I have been an item for a number of years, and if you were to ask me to define “item,” I would politely but firmly tell you to mind your own business.
Lily is beautiful, rich, and, as she describes herself, “lazy.” I do not totally agree with the lazy part, because for years she has served tirelessly and generously on the boards of organizations that aid orphans, single mothers, and the homeless. She has what I would describe as ash-blond hair, which nicely complements her dark-brown eyes, and she is a head shorter than me. She is a superb dancer, which is why you will find us in the ballroom of the Churchill Hotel on many evenings.
Stop the Presses! Page 5
