“I’ll concede your point, although in most, if not all, of those cases, you no doubt received a handsome payday.”
“I acknowledge that, sir, and make no apologies. But very often, our goals, yours and mine, are similar. I may have had my differences with your approach or that of your superiors, but I have never publicly disparaged the New York City Police Department or the quality of its service and its dedication to the community.”
“My God, I feel like standing up and applauding,” Cramer said sourly. “Okay, I grant that with a few exceptions I could mention, you’ve been pretty square with us over the years. Just don’t tell Sergeant Stebbins I said that. You know how he feels about both of you.”
“You mean good old Purley Stebbins,” I chimed in. “Yes, we have had our moments over time. And I suspect we’ll have more of them.”
“Well, I’ve said my piece,” Cramer announced, rising.
“Before you go, sir, a question,” Wolfe said. “Was Mr. Clay’s home searched by the police?”
“Only in a cursory manner, since it was obviously a suicide, whatever you may think. My men did look for a suicide note, but according to the report I got, they were only there for a relatively short time. Don’t trouble yourself to see me out,” Cramer said to me. “I know the way.”
I followed him to the door nonetheless, and closed it behind him as he descended the steps and climbed into a waiting sedan.
“He never even threw his cigar at the wastebasket when he left like he usually does. He actually took it with him,” I told Wolfe back in the office. “Do you think he might be mellowing?”
“Unlikely. But he is clearly upset at the prospect that the reason for the death of a well-known local figure is being called into question, and by extension, the work of the department is also being questioned.”
“I wonder how Cramer knew you had been hired.”
“If I were to venture a conjecture, it would be that Mr. Haverhill is our man.”
“Good guess. It’s obvious that he doesn’t hold any great affection for the police, particularly Commissioner Humbert. He probably leaked word to somebody in the department just to stir things up there. You realize, of course, that now it’s just a matter of time before the folks from the press, radio, and TV begin banging on our door or calling—yes, Fritz?”
“Pardon me, but I thought you should know that a truck from one of the television stations has just pulled up outside, and—” Fritz was interrupted by the ringing of the front doorbell.
“As I was saying, it was just a matter of time. I will try to keep the barbarians away from the gates of Rome,” I told Wolfe before heading down the hall. Two men, one with a TV camera resting on his shoulder, stood on the stoop. “Sorry, we’re not in the market for subscriptions today,” I told them. “So—”
“Mr. Goodwin, I am Marty Masterson from TV NewsFirst,” the other man said, “and we want to get some quotes from Nero Wolfe about Cameron Clay’s death.”
“How did you know who I was?”
“Really, Archie Goodwin, modesty does not become you. Everybody knows who you are,” Masterson said.
“Flattery gets you no points around here. Mr. Wolfe does not give interviews. End of discussion.” I slammed the door.
Masterson pressed the bell a couple of more times, but gave up. Fritz later told me the pair went back down to the street and Masterson talked into a portable microphone while the photographer took shots of him with the brownstone behind him.
Back in the office, I gave Wolfe a summary and then answered the phone in my usual manner.
“Yes, Mr. Goodwin, this is Darryl Stinson of the Times. We understand that Nero Wolfe is investigating the death of Cameron Clay, and I would like to talk to him about it.”
“Mr. Wolfe is not available for interviews, nor will he be.”
“We are well aware that Mr. Wolfe is known to play favorites—specifically the Gazette—and we find that highly offensive, given our position.”
“I am sorry you feel that way, Mr. Stinson, but as I said, Nero Wolfe simply is not available.” He started to say something in an angry tone, but I realized the conversation would go nowhere and hung up.
“Well, it appears the New York Times will not be sending you a Christmas card this year,” I told Wolfe, who set his book down but said nothing. “I believe we can expect more calls and visits from the folks who cover the news.”
“When you speak to Mr. Cohen, inform him of the interest being shown by his newspaper’s competitors, both those in print and on the air.”
“I will do that. What comes next?”
“Get Saul. I want the two of you to comb through Mr. Clay’s residence. You can get a key from Mr. McNeil. After that, I want to meet separately with each of those five individuals Mr. Clay seemed most threatened by.”
“That could be a tall order.”
“You have handled what you term ‘tall orders’ in the past. I have no doubt you will be successful.”
I could have been either flattered by that comment or angered that Wolfe was patronizing me. I opted for the former and called Lon. “First, you should know that the word is out that we’re on the Cameron Clay case. I’ve been fending off calls and visits from newshounds of both the print and TV species.”
“I’m not surprised. Our owner may be responsible for that. But we’re keeping the lid on Wolfe’s involvement until he has something definitive to report.”
“Second, can you ask Larry McNeil for the key to Clay’s place? Saul and I are going to give it a thorough once-over.”
“He’s in here today, helping to clean out Cameron’s office. Assuming he’s got the key with him, I’ll have it messengered over to you.”
“Glad to hear that. Now I need another favor. Can you get me phone numbers and addresses for what I like to call the ‘Fearsome Five,’ that handful of people Clay seemed to fear most?”
“I saw that one coming. Do you happen to have a pencil handy?”
“You know me better than that. Fire away.” Lon gave me what I needed to reach each of them, and we rang off.
“Okay, I’ve got the numbers and addresses we need,” I said, swiveling in my chair to face Wolfe. “I await further orders.”
“Let us talk after you have been to Mr. Clay’s home,” Wolfe replied, rising and striding off to the kitchen, presumably to supervise Fritz’s lunch preparations.
Chapter 14
While Wolfe and I were in the dining room consuming a lunch of sweetbreads amandine in paddy shells and green-corn pudding, the telephone rang twice and the doorbell once. After lunch, Fritz reported that the visitor at the door was a Daily News reporter and that the calls were from the local ABC and NBC television stations, each wanting to come here for interviews.
“I was firm but polite with each of them,” he said. “I made it clear that Mr. Wolfe was not available, nor was it likely that he would be. The Daily News man was most persistent, but I said to him that it is impolite to call upon someone without telephoning first.”
“You need to explain that to Inspector Cramer sometime,” I said. Fritz gave me a puzzled look, trying to figure out whether I was serious.
“Thank you for shielding us while we were dining,” Wolfe said. “Archie will handle all calls and visitors now.”
I wasn’t back at my desk in the office for more than three minutes when the phone jangled. It was a Post reporter who reminded me that we had met a few years back at a cocktail party in Lily Rowan’s duplex. I didn’t remember him.
“Hey, Archie, how about putting your boss on the line? I know he doesn’t go upstairs to play with his orchids until four. See … I’ve done my homework. The city editor is on my case to get some quotes about the Cameron Clay death. You know how it is.”
“No, I really don’t know how it is, never having had the privilege of working on a newspap
er. I guess I will have to live with that void in my life. And sorry to report, but Mr. Wolfe is not available.”
“Aw, come on, be a pal and give me a break. By the way, how’s your gal Lily these days?”
That did it. I quietly cradled my instrument, turning to Wolfe. “The beat goes on,” I said. “How does it feel to be the most popular man in New York City and its environs with the disseminators of news and sometimes scandal?”
Apparently, my question was not enough to tear him away from his current book, All Creatures Great and Small, by James Herriot. “Look, I know you’re engrossed in what must be a captivating volume, but you said we would talk after lunch. It is now after lunch. I thought it might be fun if I went to work.”
The doorbell rang again, but this time it was relatively good news: A bicycle messenger delivering Clay’s key in an envelope. I thanked him and tipped him, then called Saul.
“Are you up to rifling a home this afternoon?”
“Let me take a wild guess: The residence in question belonged to the late Cameron Clay.”
“You’re a winner, as usual. Can you meet me there in an hour?” I gave him the address.
“See you then,” Saul said.
I took a cab to Chelsea and climbed out just as Saul was walking up. “You should be getting more exercise, Archie,” he told me. “There is nothing like taking a brisk stroll on a February day to invigorate a person.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that. Let us see what awaits us within.”
Clay’s brownstone was probably half the size of Wolfe’s, and not nearly as nice, which we were to learn. We started on the first floor, noting the living-room sofa where the columnist’s body had been found. The two end-table drawers were empty except for some matchbooks, and the bookshelf had only a half dozen volumes, mostly detective and spy novels. We went through each book, but nothing fell out, no suicide note or an angry letter threatening bodily harm.
The kitchen looked like it was rarely used, except for a toaster on a counter surrounded by crumbs, a coffeepot that looked like it hadn’t been scrubbed out since the Boer War, and one bottle each of gin, rye, and dry vermouth, all of which were about half full. The refrigerator contained bread, butter, a can of coffee, and a bottle of orange juice, nothing more. The sink was full of dirty plates, cups, glasses, and silverware.
The rest of the three-story abode was similarly devoid of interest. In fact, much of the place did not seem lived in at all, raising the question of why its owner needed so much space. Two of the three upstairs bedrooms had no sign whatever of being used, and Clay’s room was Spartan, its closet holding only three sport coats, several pairs of slacks, a half dozen shirts, and three pairs of shoes. The chest of drawers held nothing more interesting than underwear, socks, and handkerchiefs. The top of the chest was a repository for keys, coins, a tarnished money clip containing forty-seven dollars, three packs of cigarettes—one of them opened—an ashtray filled with butts, and a Metropolitan Trust Company checkbook showing a balance of slightly more than eleven hundred dollars.
The other room on the top floor was an office of sorts, with peeling wallpaper, a battered oak desk on which sat an ancient Underwood typewriter, a pile of copy paper, and a small stack of letters from readers, all of them complimentary. Presumably, Clay planned to answer them, or perhaps he already had.
Saul and I turned every mattress. We also went through every drawer in the house, checking to see if any of them had false bottoms—none did. “Anything we’ve missed?” I asked Saul after we had been there for three-quarters of an hour.
“I can’t imagine what. It’s what I didn’t see that struck me.”
“Such as?”
“The guy did nothing whatever to personalize the place. There is no art on the walls and not a single photograph anywhere.”
“Knowing what I do about Clay, I hardly expected a ‘Home Sweet Home’ sampler hanging on one wall,” I said.
“True, we already knew that the man was something of a loner, but somehow I expected to learn more about him.”
“Well, the kitchen tells us he was a slob who liked martinis and rye, his bedroom tells us he was no Beau Brummel, and the overall emptiness of the place says he didn’t spend much time here, except to sleep and grab a quick and very light breakfast. He probably spent at least ten hours a day in his office at the Gazette or attending some evening function or another in search of items for his column.”
“Seems like a pretty sad life,” Saul observed.
“I agree. But then, not everybody is like you. Your stately dwelling place only a few blocks from here is a true bachelor’s nirvana: grand piano; ceiling-high bookcases filled with honest-to-goodness books you have read, many of them classics; an eight-sided, felt-topped poker table; a stereo system; Impressionist and Cubist paintings on the walls; a well-stocked bar; and a wine cellar that’s superior to those at some of this town’s fine restaurants.”
Saul tried to look embarrassed, but it didn’t work. “Okay, so I like a few nice things. You got a problem with that?”
“Yes I do, it’s called the sin of envy.”
Chapter 15
When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six, I told him of our fruitless visit to Cameron Clay’s home. He did not seem surprised.
“All right,” Wolf said with a sigh. “It is time to tackle the five people we discussed earlier. The first one I desire to talk to is Mr. Michael Tobin.”
“I assume you prefer a face-to-face conversation, rather than a telephone chat, correct?”
Wolfe had turned back to his book, so I took his answer to be “yes.”
I was not about to call the disgraced former cop, and although I had his address in Yonkers, I wanted more, which meant another call to Lon.
“You’re going to be hearing a lot from me in the days ahead,” I told him.
“I will try to hide my surprise,” he said. “What is it this time?”
“I want the address of that florist shop in Yonkers where Tobin has been working. I plan to pay him a visit.”
Lon cursed but quickly apologized. “Sorry, Archie, I realize that you’re working on behalf of my bosses. I’ll have to call you back.” He did, less than five minutes later, with what I needed.
“If you’re interested, I’m off to Yonkers,” I told Wolfe. I can only assume he heard me because he didn’t look up from the book.
I made the short hike over to Curran’s Motors on Tenth Avenue between Thirty-Fifth and Thirty-Sixth Streets, where Wolfe has garaged his cars for years, and I got the Heron sedan. Ten minutes later, I was headed north on the West Side Highway, which then became the Henry Hudson Parkway and finally the Saw Mill River Parkway by the time it entered Yonkers.
I had no trouble finding Broadway in this suburban city. The florist shop was wedged between a hardware store and a dry cleaner on a busy commercial stretch. I parked a block away and walked to the store, which displayed several colorful floral arrangements in its front window. Peering in, I saw a lone figure behind the counter, waiting on a woman. I had seen enough photographs of Michael Tobin in the newspapers to recognize his square, ruddy face and permanently pugnacious expression. Stepping into the store, I played the browser while Tobin and the customer transacted their business. After she thanked him and left with her purchase, I walked to the counter. “You are Michael Tobin,” I said.
“Yes …” He was guarded as he eyed me under thick eyebrows.
“My name is Archie Goodwin, and I work for the detective Nero Wolfe. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
“What is it you want?” he said through clenched teeth as he tensed up.
“Mr. Wolfe is investigating the death of Cameron Clay, the Gazette columnist.”
“I know who he is—or was,” Tobin snarled. “What’s to investigate? The man killed himself.”
“Maybe. Anyway, it s
eems that the late Mr. Clay had been getting anonymous telephone calls threatening his life, and he had named five individuals as candidates for making those calls. You are one of the five.”
“Listen, you cheap gumshoe, don’t try to get tough with me.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, Mr. Tobin. I am simply a messenger, nothing more. Mr. Wolfe would like to talk to you.”
“Is that so? Well tell your fat boss not to bother calling me, because I won’t answer.”
“He doesn’t want to call you; he wants to see you, in his office.”
I thought Tobin was going to have a coronary attack. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? Go tell him that he can stuff it.”
“Well, I certainly had not expected this reaction, Mr. Tobin. You see: all four of the others on Mr. Clay’s list have been to see Nero Wolfe. They had no problem talking to him. If it were to get into the newspapers that you were the only one who—”
“And you’re telling me it would get into the newspapers,” Tobin rasped, beads of sweat breaking out on his freckled forehead.
“Given your, well … past history, I shouldn’t think you would want any further publicity in the press. And as you may know, Mr. Wolfe is very well connected with newspaper executives in New York.”
I really hadn’t expected the guy to crumble, but apparently I had him on the ropes, so I moved in for the knockout. “You are not being accused of anything, but Mr. Wolfe feels it’s important that he speak to people who may have for one reason or another held a grudge against Cameron Clay. It is possible you will have some helpful information for him.”
“I don’t have any information of any kind!” he yelled.
“All right, Mr. Tobin, if that’s the way you want it. Your name will almost surely appear in at least one New York paper tomorrow as one who refuses to cooperate with an investigation.”
Stop the Presses! Page 9
