For Lily, home is the lavish, tenth-floor penthouse of a building on Sixty-Third Street between Madison and Park decorated with paintings by Renoir, Monet, and Matisse, among others. Lily’s money comes from her late father, an Irish immigrant who made his fortune by building much of Manhattan’s current sewer system. But as rich as Lily is, we need to get one thing straight: Whenever we go out on the town, which is often, I pay. Period.
We met years ago in an unlikely place, a meadow in rural upstate New York. I was working on a case with Wolfe,* and circumstances were such that I was being chased across said meadow by an angry bull. I jumped a fence to avoid its horns and landed unceremoniously on my rear end, although on the safe side of the fence.
My awkward acrobatics were observed by a beautiful young stranger—Lily—who applauded me and said, “Beautiful, Escamillo. Do it again.”
I quickly got to know Lily and soon learned from her that Escamillo is a toreador in the opera Carmen, the same opera, by the way, in which Serena Sanchez has made her name.
Back to the present: At the end of a fine evening, Lily and I were having coffee and dessert at Rusterman’s. The Rangers had come from behind to beat Montreal before a full house at the Garden, and we celebrated the victory with a dinner of one of the restaurant’s signature entrées, boned duck à la rouennaise.
“You have seemed lost in thought tonight, Escamillo,” she said as we finished our coffee. “Have I somehow lost my allure?”
“That will never happen,” I told her. “Sorry, but I did not realize I was distracted.”
“Aha, all of which means you and Nero Wolfe must be in the middle of a case,” she said, putting a slender, manicured hand on my arm and squeezing it lightly. “I recognize the symptoms.”
“Oddly enough, we have no case at present, my love. Just a strange situation, involving a well-known and widely read newspaper columnist.”
“Well known, eh?” she said. “Well, this town certainly has several who fall into that category. But, of course, it can’t be Walter Winchell, because he’s been dead and gone for several years now.”
“Try Cameron Clay.”
Lily made a face like someone reacting to a bad pun. “Ouch, why would you want to have anything to do with him?”
I proceeded to tell her about the recent events involving Clay. She nodded and took on a thoughtful expression. I awaited the words of wisdom that invariably follow one of my discussions of a case, or in this instance, a non-case.
“I met Cameron Clay once, at a reception following the opening of a Broadway musical that lasted only two weeks. He was a boor and at least half-drunk, and came on to me.”
“I will at least give him points for having good taste,” I said.
“But the lout’s pickup lines were both pathetic and crude. It was all I could do to keep from jamming the heel of my pump into his instep. And then there was his breath …”
“You never shared that little episode with me.”
“I tried to put it out of my mind seconds after it happened,” Lily said. “Fortunately, I’ve never crossed paths with Mr. Clay again, although I have met his former wife, Serena, the opera singer, and I rather like her, although I can’t say I know her all that well.”
“Tell me about it.”
“A few years back, she was at the Metropolitan Opera singing Carmen—”
“The one with Escamillo in it.”
“Of course, how could either of us ever forget that? Anyway, I met her after one of the performances. Clay wasn’t around; they had already divorced. Nevertheless, we hit it off, and I asked if she would consider singing an aria from the opera at a benefit I was hosting for a youth foundation. She did, which helped make the evening a smashing success.”
“Do you still keep in touch with her?” I asked.
“Only occasionally, as she sings and teaches all over the world. It’s intriguing that you should bring her up now, though. According to an opera-going friend of mine, Serena’s been around here for the last couple of months, teaching master classes in voice at Juilliard and at that school down in Philadelphia. She’s apparently between opera engagements, although I have heard she is doing far less singing these days.”
“Very interesting.”
Lily raised her perfect eyebrows. “Ah, when you say ‘very interesting,’ I get suspicious. Are you going to tell me you think that because she’s in town, she could be the one who has been making threatening calls to her loutish ex-husband?”
“If she is, she’s got an incredible vocal range, because Clay says his mystery caller has a masculine voice, albeit fuzzy. That’s not to say Miss Sanchez couldn’t put someone up to making telephone threats for her.”
“As I’ve said, I really don’t know her that well, Archie, but I have trouble believing she would want Clay killed, as dreadful as their marriage was.”
“She apparently once said, in public, ‘I will kill you,’ or words to that extent.”
“Yes, I remember hearing about that, too, but bear in mind that Serena is known for her volatile temper. She’s a hot-blooded Mediterranean, and she probably said that in the heat of the moment.”
“She’s also got an itchy trigger finger. Years ago, she shot a guy in Spain who had been bothering her.”
“I did not know that,” Lily said, clearly surprised.
“The man she shot, who had a reputation for bothering women, survived, and she got off without being charged. Apparently, the judge felt she had just cause, or else he was beguiled by her charms. But that event underscores what you refer to as her ‘volatile temper.’”
“I’m sure she’s done her best to forget the episode.”
“But chances are, Cameron Clay hasn’t forgotten, because we know he was aware of the incident.”
“Which raises the question: How did you know about it?”
“I am a crack private investigator. I make it my job to know things about people that they don’t want known.”
“Well and good, Crack Private Investigator. Would you care to see me home and come up for a nightcap?”
“I thought you would never ask.”
* Some Buried Caesar, Rex Stout, 1939.
Chapter 9
For the next several days, I banished Cameron Clay from my mind, hoping that somehow he would go away. But then, one snowy morning, I got a call from Lon Cohen.
“Even though he is not a client, I felt you would be interested in an update on our churlish columnist,” he said. “He has flatly refused to accept either a bodyguard or a service, even though the Gazette offered to foot the whole bill. He won’t talk to the police, either. Commissioner Humbert even called our editor and publisher, Ashton Cordwell, and asked him to force Cameron Clay to sit down with Cramer’s men, but Cordwell said he could not make Clay do anything that he didn’t want to.”
“It would appear that your man has a death wish,” I said.
“He is certainly not doing anything to help himself,” Lon agreed. “I keep thinking I’m going to get a call at home one night telling me that … well, you know.”
“I do. But it’s possible that whoever is calling Clay just wants to scare the hell out of him, perhaps as revenge for some past insult.”
“Maybe you are right,” Lon said, sounding unconvinced. I was skeptical, too.
I began reading Stop the Presses! every day, if only to see whether recent events had caused Clay to mellow. But if anything, he had become even more bombastic and controversial, with many of his sharpest jabs aimed squarely at the five people he had claimed the most likely to be threatening him.
Here are a few samples collected over a ten-day period:
SPRINGING A LEAK: The shoddily constructed Andrews Shopping Plaza over in Jersey is back in the news—for the umpteenth time in a negative way. … A water pipe in the central atrium burst this week, flooding the hal
ls and causing a shutdown of the entire mall. … Only last month, a section of the ceiling collapsed for no apparent reason, causing another closure. … As usual, the developer, Kerwin Andrews, was unavailable for comment. … Wonder if the people who finance his shopping centers, office buildings, and housing developments will ever get wise to the fact that Andrews’s projects are like houses of cards—ready to collapse at any moment.
MR. MALPRACTICE GETS AROUND: Roswell Stokes, Esq. (whatever else you do, please don’t forget the “Esq.”) finds the time in his busy courtroom schedule to unwind in the presence of a comely damsel. … Several times recently, the oh-so-natty defense attorney has been seen at chi-chi spots around town in the company of a raven-haired beauty who has more curves than an Olympic slalom course. … We do not yet know this lovely lady’s name, but perhaps one of our loyal readers can enlighten us as to her identity.
THE CAPTAIN TAKES HIMSELF A TRIP: Stop the Presses! has just learned that former New York City Police Department Captain Michael “Iron Mike” Tobin—yes, the same man who went to prison for brutalizing suspects—has lately been seen lolling on the sandy beaches of a terribly fashionable Caribbean island. (Hint: it rhymes with “tuba.”) … This is the same island, you may recall, where New York mobster Aldo Marshall (née: Moretti) has his palatial wintertime retreat. … You may also recall that Captain Mike was often seen in the company of Mr. Marshall before his incarceration. … It is something of a comfort to learn that old friends may well have been reunited far from our town’s frigid clime.
THE DIVA SURFACES: For any of you out there who might have been wondering what has become of the legendary (at least in her own mind) mezzo-soprano, Serena Sanchez, I have news. … The diva (full disclosure: She once was briefly my wife, the more’s the pity), has quietly returned to our island and is rumored to be teaching a master class in voice at Juilliard. … And if that is not enough to fill her time, she also has been known to commute down to Philly to do teaching at their Curtis School of Music. … One can only hope she doesn’t scream at her students they way she once screamed at her conductors—and also at me.
OH, MILLARD, MILLARD: Our worst councilman has done it again. … Millard “My Palms Are Open” Beardsley of Harlem has missed yet another council meeting, his sixth in this session, which may qualify as a record. … The reason given, according to his press secretary, is that he was called to the bedside of an elderly friend who had fallen on an icy Harlem sidewalk and broken his hip. … Perhaps if Mr. Beardsley would insist that his constituents’ sidewalks were better maintained, he might be freed up to attend to the occasional council meeting. … It would be refreshing for a change to see him in the august body with his peers. … We hope the Honorable Mr. Beardsley remembers where his seat is. (Hint: second row, fourth chair from the left as you face the lectern.)
I was intrigued enough with my findings from Clay’s columns to put the clippings on Wolfe’s desk blotter the next morning. After he had come down from the plant rooms, placed orchids in a vase on his desk, settled himself, and rang for beer, he glanced at my labors.
“What is this?” he demanded, holding up the sheets.
“Items gleaned from the columns of one Cameron Clay over the last several days. I find it interesting that Mr. Clay seems determined to tweak the noses of the people he most suspects of being behind those telephone calls.”
Wolfe glowered at me and pushed the clippings away after scanning them. “I have minimal interest in what Mr. Clay chooses to write, although I do salute you for correctly using the word glean. One of its definitions is ‘to gather information or material bit by bit,’ which you have done here.”
“I thought you might have found it interesting that Cameron Clay appears to have a death wish.”
“I find nothing whatever interesting about that man,” Wolfe said, picking up one of his current books and opening it. Seeing that the subject of Cameron Clay was closed, I began entering orchid germination records provided by our orchid nurse, Theodore Horstmann, onto file cards. Wolfe had no use for Cameron Clay, and I was not about to disagree with him. Besides, I was about to leave town and escape the winter, at least temporarily. That very afternoon, Lily Rowan and I would be on a southbound plane from Kennedy Airport. Destination: the Virgin Islands, where we would spend ten days basking in the sun, laying on the sand, and scuba diving, among other diversions. When I had told Wolfe of our plans, he had shuddered—not because I would be away and unavailable, but because to him the idea of anyone willingly boarding an aircraft and traveling at the speed of a bullet while miles above the earth’s surface was an act of wanton recklessness.
Chapter 10
Our trip to the Caribbean was everything Lily and I could have wished for—perfect weather, gentle breezes, calm seas, wonderful food and drink, and each other’s company, something neither of us has ever grown tired of. But as good a getaway as we had, ten days was enough, and I was eager to get back home, even if there was no case to work on.
Our flight home arrived at midnight. The next morning, I realized one thing I had missed in the islands was breakfasts of the quality served up by Fritz Brenner, and I told him so, causing him to blush. Fritz likes to be complimented, but at the same time, it embarrasses him. “I have missed you, Archie,” he said as he served me a second helping of poached eggs and Canadian bacon.
“Not as much as I’ve missed you and your culinary skills,” I replied. “Now Miss Rowan and I had some good meals down there in the islands, but nothing that can compare with the masterpieces you dish up here for lunch and dinner every day.” That brought another blush.
“I think he misses you, too,” Fritz said, referring to Wolfe. “He always seems a little out of sorts when you are away.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” I told him. “I’m sure he doesn’t miss my nagging him to work when we’re in the middle of a case or talking to him when he’s trying to read a book. I tend to get on his nerves.”
“Perhaps, Archie, but I suspect that sometimes he gets on your nerves, as well.”
“I won’t deny that,” I said, laughing. “But still, it’s good to be back.”
One of the drawbacks of taking a vacation is that, in my absence, the office chores do not magically take care of themselves. When I settled in at my desk with coffee, I found a batch of invoices for books, groceries, meat, and beer neatly stacked on my blotter, along with a subscription renewal form for an orchid publication and instructions from Wolfe as to how to reply to several letters that had arrived in the last week.
I had begun to write checks for the bills when the phone rang. It was Saul Panzer.
“Welcome home. How was the trip?”
“Wonderful. Did you miss me at Thursday’s poker game?”
“We sure did, since you are usually a contributor. But everything was topsy-turvy. The big winner was—are you sitting down for this?—Fred Durkin.”
“Well, I will be damned.” Fred is one of the freelance operatives Wolfe often hires, and he’s as brave and honest as they come, but he is neither quick-witted nor particularly adept with the pasteboards and usually leaves our game with his wallet lighter than when he arrived—like me.
“So that’s the big news of the week, I gather?”
“Not really, Archie. Have you listened to your radio this morning?” I told him I hadn’t.
“Well, if you do happen to turn it on, you will quickly learn that early this morning, in his brownstone, Cameron Clay was found dead of a gunshot wound.”
“Now I really will be damned. What’s being said about it?”
“Nothing so far. Too early. Apparently, his legman, a kid named McNeil, found the body.”
“I’m trying to figure out if I’m surprised or not,” I said after taking a deep breath. “As we both know, a healthy number of people around town will be happy to hear the news.”
“A very healthy number,” Saul agreed.
“I know that you never asked Wolfe—or me—why we were interested in learning more about Clay, and if I were to make an educated guess, I’d say you’re eventually going to find out the answer.”
“I can wait. When I get an assignment from your boss, he’s got a good reason, and that’s all I need to know.”
“I feel pretty much the same way when I get an order. I guess you could say we are both good soldiers. It’s safe to say you’ll be hearing more from us about Clay soon.”
“You know how to reach me,” Saul said, ringing off.
I sat for several minutes mulling whether to call Wolfe in the plant rooms or wait until he came down at eleven. Knowing how much he dislikes being disturbed when he’s playing with his posies, I decided the news could wait. Besides, just before I left for the islands, he’d made it clear that he was not the least bit interested in Cameron Clay.
I had almost caught up with my paperwork when Wolfe strode into the office. “Good morning, Archie. I trust you had a pleasant sojourn. You must have arrived home very late last night.”
“I did and I did. And it seems that I am back home just in time to hear some interesting news.”
Wolfe threw a look my way. He hates it when I am being what he calls ‘enigmatic.’ “Confound it, report!”
“Yes, sir. This morning, Cameron Clay was found in his home, dead from a gunshot wound.”
That earned me a second look, this one wide-eyed, but it did not interrupt him from buzzing for beer.
“Saul telephoned earlier,” I said. “He had heard about it on the radio and thought we would like to know.”
Wolfe waited until Fritz had delivered the beer and he had taken his first sip of the day before speaking. “Call Mr. Cohen.”
“And here I thought you weren’t interested in Clay.”
“Archie, call Mr. Cohen.”
Like a good soldier, I followed orders, dialing as Wolfe picked up his receiver. Lon answered on the first ring, barking “Yeah, what is it?” over the cacophony of yelling voices.
Stop the Presses! Page 6
