“Archie here; sounds like you’ve got a hundred people in that office of yours.”
“I’m not in my office, I’m in the newsroom. My calls are being routed down here,” he yelled. “All hell is breaking loose, as you can imagine.”
“Mr. Cohen, this is Nero Wolfe. What details do you have on Mr. Clay’s death?”
“Very few at present. He died of a single gunshot wound. His legman, Larry McNeil, found him. The police are initially saying it was a probable suicide,” Lon shouted over the noise around him.
“Very well, we will talk later, when it is more convenient for you,” Wolfe said, and we hung up.
“And here I thought you weren’t in the least interested in Mr. Cameron Clay,” I told him. “That just goes to show how much I know.”
Wolfe did not respond to my barb, and I was not in the mood to goad him any further. Besides, I had a feeling something was eating at him, but I’m not smart enough to figure out what it was. I went out onto the stoop and picked up our early edition of the Gazette, which had a headline in three-inch capital letters that screamed COLUMNIST CLAY FOUND SHOT DEAD AT HOME! The accompanying story had few details, other than to quote Inspector Lionel T. Cramer as saying, “Indications at this time point to suicide, although we are exploring all other options.” He did not say what those options were, but one would have to rule out “accidental death,” which left murder.
It turned out that murder was on the minds of the brass at the Gazette, as we were soon to learn. Shortly after Wolfe and I had finished lunch and were back in the office, Lon Cohen called. “Sorry that I was so abrupt earlier,” he said, “but you can appreciate the chaos in the office at the time.”
“I can indeed, Mr. Cohen,” said Wolfe, who had picked up his instrument on my signal.
“Our owner and our editor-publisher want to come and see you, Mr. Wolfe.”
“To what end?”
“They are not buying the suicide business.”
“What is your opinion? You probably knew Mr. Clay better than either of your superiors,” Wolfe said.
“I am wrestling with the question myself right now,” Lon said. “On the side of murder is the lack of a note. On the side of suicide is Cameron’s rapidly declining health.”
“When Mr. Clay visited us, he seemed far from healthy. What was the nature of his illness?”
“According to Larry McNeil, he had been diagnosed with lung cancer and had been given a year, two at the outside. He also suffered from diabetes.”
“Did Mr. Clay tell anyone else of this cancer diagnosis?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Cameron didn’t seem to have any close friends, perhaps by design, with the possible exception of Larry, who shared the news with me. For all I know, he may have been the only person Cameron confided in, at least involving health matters. He never told me how sick he was, although it did not take a genius to realize that he was going downhill. You could see that by looking at the man. I just had no idea how rapid the descent was.”
“Why specifically do your owner and your editor want to see me?”
“To hire you. They don’t believe Cameron killed himself, despite what the police seem to think. They are absolutely convinced that he was murdered.”
That drew a frown. I long ago reconciled with the realization that I will never fully understand Nero Wolfe and how his mind works, but in this instance, I believe I had at least a shred of insight. He had certainly not liked Cameron Clay—that was obvious from their one meeting—but he also seemed fascinated by the man’s total disdain for the opinions of others, a trait that he himself possesses in spades.
“Mr. Cohen, these men would undertake certain risks by hiring me. For one, they would have absolutely no control over my findings.”
“I told them as much, but they are willing to take their chances and want a meeting with you.”
“Very well. I presume they understand that I make it a practice to conduct all of my business here.”
“I made them aware of that.”
“Have them here at nine tomorrow evening, but with one proviso.”
“Which is?” Lon asked.
“That you be present as well.”
Chapter 11
“Pardon my curiosity,” I said to Wolfe after we had ended the call, “but why insist on Lon’s being present at tomorrow’s meeting? Not that it bothers me in the least.”
“It seems clear to me that both the owner and the editor of the Gazette have great respect for Mr. Cohen, as well they should. His being in attendance will only increase their respect for him, but far more important to us, he surely knew Cameron Clay better than either of his superiors, and he may well be able to contribute to the discussion.”
The next day’s Times and Gazette each had more details on Clay’s death. According to the front-page articles in each paper, the columnist was found at about eight in the morning by his legman, Larry McNeil, who said that he went to Clay’s home every weekday morning to map out the day’s assignments.
That night, the front doorbell rang at five minutes to nine. After noting the trio on the stoop through the one-way glass, I opened the door with a smile.
I had never seen the pair who entered with Lon. The taller of the two introduced himself as Ashton Cordwell, the editor and publisher of the Gazette. He cut a dashing figure at six feet two inches, lean and with a chiseled profile, razor-cut salt-and-pepper hair, and a three-piece pinstriped navy blue suit that would have been right at home on a model posing in Gentlemen’s Quarterly. Cordwell looked like the Ivy Leaguer he was, having graduated from Princeton. He gave me a tight-lipped smile as he handed me his black cashmere overcoat and homburg, both of which I hung on the hall rack.
Eric Haverhill was several inches shorter than Cordwell and several pounds heavier, with some of that weight in the double chin under a round face topped by a balding pate. He also was tight-lipped, but without the smile, and he hung his own coat and hat on the rack. He could have taken style tips from either Cordwell or Lon, but perhaps he felt that having a controlling interest in America’s fifth-largest newspaper was sufficient to impress people.
In the office, I got them seated, Haverhill in the red leather chair and Cordwell and Lon in the yellow ones. I then reached under Wolfe’s desk and pressed the buzzer, his signal to enter from the kitchen, where he had been waiting to make his entry.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said as he walked in and settled himself behind his desk. “Would you like something to drink? I’m having beer.”
“I will take a scotch on the rocks,” Haverhill said. “After what’s been going on these last two days, I need one.”
“I’ll second that order,” Cordwell said, crossing one leg over the other. “The Gazette has been in the center of a media feeding frenzy, with every paper in town banging on our doors to get details on Cameron Clay’s life and habits, to say nothing of the wire services and radio and TV networks.”
“What the hell, make it three,” Lon said.
I went to the kitchen for ice and then returned, moving to the serving bar against the wall to pour their drinks, plus one for me, as Fritz walked in with Wolfe’s beers.
“Mr. Wolfe, before we begin,” Eric Haverhill said after clearing his throat, “I was just a kid the last time you had occasion to get involved with the Gazette, and I want you to know that our family still very much appreciates what you did for us in solving the murder of my grandmother Harriet Haverhill.”
Wolfe nodded curtly. He has never been able to handle compliments graciously, but that is not to say he doesn’t like to get them. “You and Mr. Cordwell had wished to see me,” he said.
“Not just to see you, to hire you,” Cordwell said, getting a look from Haverhill that indicated he was to be the spokesman. “The police believe that Cameron Clay committed suicide. We do not. We are absolutely convinced
that he was murdered.”
“The reason for that conviction?” Wolfe asked.
“First, no suicide note has been found,” the editor-publisher said after sampling the scotch and nodding his approval. “Second, he had been getting threatening telephone calls. Third, and most important, Clay was a man of immense self-esteem, some would term it arrogance. In any case, he was hardly the type to destroy himself.”
Wolfe readjusted his bulk. “I have found that the police usually have good reasons for their beliefs.”
“Hah!” Haverhill snorted, turning again to his chief executive.
“Mr. Wolfe,” Cordwell said, “as I’m sure you know, the murder rate in New York City is running well ahead of last year’s numbers—and we’re less than two months into this year. We, and most of the other papers in town, have written articles and editorials about this alarming trend. Our editors—and I’m sure Lon here will agree—feel that the police will do everything they can to keep the homicide numbers lower, even if it means labeling a murder a suicide.”
“I have worked with the police for many years, admittedly with some disagreements, but overall I have found them in general to be honest and thorough in their investigations. I find it difficult to believe they would cover up a murder simply for the sake of statistics,” Wolfe said.
“We understand from Lon that you have a long relationship with Inspector Cramer. We do not think it is Cramer who wants to finagle the numbers, but rather some of the higher-ups.”
“Specifically Commissioner Humbert,” Haverhill cut in. “He is little more than a political hack interested in covering his”—the newspaper owner took a breath before continuing—“his tail, and the latest murder numbers have him back on his heels. The last thing he needs now is the murder of a prominent figure to underscore the gravity of the situation.”
“Have either of you shared your dissatisfaction with the police?” Wolfe posed.
“I have,” Cordwell said. “In a one-on-one meeting with Humbert yesterday, I told him that we at the Gazette felt that the department was not pursuing the cause of Clay’s death vigorously enough. He assured me in his dismissive, flip-of-the-hand manner that everything is being done to ensure that Clay’s death is thoroughly investigated, and that in his understanding, all indications point strongly to suicide. I felt like I was talking to a wall, so I got up and left.”
“As I know you are aware, Mr. Clay came to me to discuss the telephone calls he had been receiving, and I offered some suggestions that he chose not to act upon,” Wolfe said. “Well and good, but it seemed clear to me in our relatively brief conversation that he was not in the best of health.”
“Admittedly, I only saw him on rare occasions,” Cordwell said, “so I’m not aware of any specific problems other than his being overweight. Are you, Lon?”
I’ve always said that Lon Cohen is one cool customer, and he showed it at that moment. He wrinkled his brow as if in thought. “Well, Cameron had seemed to slow down somewhat in the last few months, but I put that at least in part down to advancing age. And bear in mind that for years, he was tireless and had worked practically around the clock. That can take a lot out of a man.”
“I always thought Clay lived a, shall we say, unconventional life,” Cordwell said. “That never bothered me. He was a unique sort, and it does not surprise me that his lifestyle had aged him.”
“He made a great many enemies along the way,” Wolfe observed.
“That he did,” Eric Haverhill said, “but it is all part of what made him such a draw to our readers.”
“I also understand he incurred a number of lawsuits.”
Haverhill nodded, smiling. “Yes, but there were fewer than might be expected, given his confrontational style. You should know that my wife, Felicia, was one of his biggest fans, and she ponied up the money—her own money, by the way—to settle a couple of these suits, specifically ones filed by Kerwin Andrews, the developer.”
“That was quite generous of her,” Wolfe said.
“I suppose. The interesting thing is that Felicia didn’t much care for Clay as a person. He is not easy to like, as you probably found out when you met him. But she just delighted in reading the column. I accused her of being a lover of gossip, which she did not deny. But she also was quick to point out that Stop the Presses! was the best-read thing in the paper.”
“That is certainly true,” Cordwell said, “and it has been at the top of all of our readership studies for the last several years running.”
“I have not spoken with the police since Mr. Clay’s demise, nor is there any reason I should have,” Wolfe said. “Beyond what has been in your paper and those of your competitors, what can you tell me about the circumstances surrounding his death?”
“Well, I’m sure you know from your reading that his body was found by Larry McNeil,” Cordwell said. “Larry went to Clay’s townhouse each morning around eight for his daily assignments, and he was surprised that the front door was ajar, which was most unusual. He went in and found Clay lying on a living-room sofa with a pistol in his hand and a wound to his right temple. It was clear to Larry that Clay was dead, and he immediately telephoned the police.”
“You have stated there was no suicide note,” Wolfe said. “As far as you are aware, did the police find anything else in his home that would shed light on his death?”
“I asked Commissioner Humbert that very question,” Cordwell replied, “and he said nothing was found to indicate that the death was a murder. Humbert then pointedly added that ‘It is a common fallacy that all suicides leave a note.’ Mr. Wolfe, I know that your fees are high, but we are willing to compensate you well for finding Cameron Clay’s murderer.”
“You misunderstand my position,” Wolfe said. “I do not accept cases in which any stipulation is placed upon me.”
“We have no stipulations,” Haverhill insisted.
“Oh, but you do,” Wolfe said. “You expect me to identify a murderer.”
“Well of course that’s what we expect!” Haverhill said. “But we are not specifying who that individual is.”
“What if there is no murderer, Mr. Haverhill?”
“I beg your pardon?” the Gazette owner said, gaping at Wolfe.
“Let us assume, for the purposes of this discussion, that Mr. Clay did kill himself. What if suicide were to be the result of my findings?”
“That is simply absurd!” Haverhill squawked. “Totally absurd.”
“Perhaps,” Wolfe said, shrugging. “But I need to make clear that if I am to undertake an investigation, no restrictions can be placed upon me.”
“That strikes me as an eminently reasonable position,” Cordwell said, turning to Haverhill. “I think we should abide by whatever conclusion Mr. Wolfe comes up with,” he added.
“Uh, yes, of course, of course,” the Gazette owner mumbled, clearly dissatisfied.
Cordwell, who seemed to know how to handle his boss, turned back to Wolfe. “Would fifty thousand dollars be acceptable to you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Wolfe said, “plus expenses.”
“I assume you would require an advance.”
“Yes again. Half now and half upon completion of the assignment.”
“Just how do we know it will be completed?” Haverhill asked, still hot under the collar.
“I believe we can set that question aside for now, Eric,” Cordwell said soothingly. “Mr. Wolfe has a sterling reputation, as you yourself know from the work he has performed in the past for your family, and to which you alluded earlier.”
Haverhill nodded but said nothing. Cordwell pulled a checkbook and a gold pen from his breast pocket and began writing. “This is drawn on the Gazette’s corporate account at the Metropolitan Trust,” he said to Wolfe. “Is that agreeable to you?”
“It is,” Wolfe said.
“We thank you very much f
or your time, Mr. Wolfe,” Cordwell said, standing as both Haverhill and Lon also rose. “May we request that you keep us posted on any progress, with Mr. Cohen being the conduit? Also, feel free to draw upon him for anything you might need from the Gazette. I know you and he have often worked together in the past and we appreciate the close relationship you have.”
Wolfe nodded, slipping the check into the center drawer of his desk.
Chapter 12
Well, let the games begin,” I said to Wolfe upon returning to the office after seeing the Gazette trio out. “Haverhill seemed far from happy, Cordwell nodded what seemed like his approval of your position, and Lon winked at me. This should be very interesting. Got any initial instructions?”
“None at the moment.”
“I think I see why you really wanted Lon to be present. You knew his bosses would want him as the go-between, didn’t you?”
Wolfe gave me his version of a smile but said nothing, and I figured he was through thinking about the death of Cameron Clay for now. Knowing that Fritz had turned in, I wished Wolfe a good night and picked up the empty glasses of our guests, along with Wolfe’s glass and beer bottles, and took them to the kitchen.
The next morning, after breakfast, I went to the office with coffee and found that Wolfe had left instructions. A handwritten note had been left on my desk blotter.
AG
I want to talk first to Mr. Clay’s assistant, Larry McNeil. Tonight would be preferable.
NW
When Wolfe uses preferable, he really means imperative, as I long ago learned. I dialed Lon’s number. “Somehow, I knew it would be you,” he said. “What did you think about last night?”
“I was mildly surprised that Wolfe accepted the commission,” I told him. “And you?”
“Nothing our two guys said surprised me very much, Archie. As you no doubt could tell, Ashton knows how to deal with Eric, which has been helpful to us on the news side of the paper. Eric has this tendency to meddle in the editorial operations, and Ashton can handle him very well. Our owner knows that his editor is smarter than he is. In fact, Ashton has two Pulitzers from his days as a reporter. They speak loudly.”
Stop the Presses! Page 7
