Stop the Presses!

by Robert Goldsborough

“Hah! It’s not a police investigation, it is a damned private eye drumming up business.”

  “Do you honestly think readers will differentiate between types of inquiries? And do you really want your name involved, even in an indirect way, with the death of someone you had been quoted as disliking intensely?”

  “So you’d dredge up the past to make me seem guilty of something in the present, is that how you play?”

  “Nobody has said anything about your being guilty, but if you fail to sit down with Nero Wolfe and word gets out, how do you think that will look?”

  “And, of course, you’re suggesting that word will get out, right?” Tobin growled, his large white-knuckled hands gripping the counter.

  “I am suggesting only that it would be a very good idea for you to have a conversation with Nero Wolfe.”

  “And just where would this conversation be held?”

  “In the office of Mr. Wolfe’s brownstone on West Thirty-Fifth Street.” I gave him the address.

  “Oh, swell! In an office that’s bugged, of course!”

  “No, sir. Nero Wolfe has not ever bugged a meeting in his office, and he never will.”

  “And I suppose I’m supposed to take your word for that?” Tobin sneered.

  “If you don’t believe me, ask Inspector Cramer about Wolfe’s credibility.”

  “That’ll never happen,” he laughed sourly. “I doubt if Cramer would give me the time of day, let alone information about a private cop.”

  “All I can say to you is that you can trust Mr. Wolfe to keep your session with him confidential.”

  Tobin looked down at the linoleum countertop for several seconds and then back up at me. “When would this meeting take place?”

  “Tonight, nine o’clock.”

  “Who would be present?”

  “You, me, and Nero Wolfe. No one else.”

  He took a deep breath, then another. More seconds went by. “All right, give me the damned address. I’ll be there. But by God, if I don’t like the way things are going, I’m out of there, fast.”

  “Fair enough. We will see you at nine.”

  As I drove home, I counted the number of lies and misrepresentations I had thrown Tobin’s way and hoped they would not come back to haunt me on the judgment day.

  Chapter 16

  When I got back to the brownstone, Wolfe was up in the plant rooms. “Anybody call in my absence?” I asked Fritz in the kitchen.

  “Yes, a very rude man from a radio station, and a woman, also very demanding and unpleasant, from some news­paper over in New Jersey that I have never heard of. They both insisted on speaking to Mr. Wolfe.”

  “And you told them to shove it.”

  “No, Archie, I refuse to answer bad manners with more bad manners. But I was firm with them.”

  “You are a better man, and a nicer man, than I am, Gunga Din.”

  “Ah, a play on the writings of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Archie. Do you like his work?”

  Fritz’s knowledge in all sorts of areas continues to amaze me. In answer to his question, I sheepishly replied, “I’ve never read him.”

  Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six and, of course, immediately rang for beer.

  “We will be having a visitor later,” I said nonchalantly as he settled into his chair.

  “Indeed?”

  “Former New York City Police Captain ‘Iron Mike’ Tobin.”

  Wolfe raised his eyebrows. “Satisfactory.”

  For those of you unfamiliar with Nero Wolfe’s mannerisms, his mouthing of “satisfactory” is equivalent to a normal person saying “marvelous” or “hearty congratulations.” And on those rare occasions when he says “very satisfactory,” it equates to “hallelujah.”

  “How did you persuade Mr. Tobin to grace us with his presence?” Wolfe asked.

  “More than once, you have advised me—make that told me—to use my intelligence, guided by my experience. That is what I did. The result is that he will be here at nine, or so he said. He was less than ecstatic with the idea of coming to see you, though.”

  “Hardly surprising,” Wolfe observed. “Mr. Tobin is by no means a paragon. However, he will be treated in the same fashion as any guest under this roof.”

  Wolfe may often be irascible—a word Inspector Cramer has used more than once to describe him—but he is steadfast in his insistence that in his home “a guest is a jewel, resting on the cushion of hospitality.” Some jewel, this disgraced former cop. But then, this is Nero Wolfe’s house, and he makes the rules. If I ever own my own place, which is highly unlikely at this stage, I will make my own rules, and not every guest will be a jewel resting on a cushion of any kind.

  That night, as the clock crawled toward nine, I was giving myself no better than even odds that Tobin would show up. Sure, I thought I had done a pretty good sales job on him, but then, he had time to think about it and maybe decided he would take his chances and stay away.

  I would be lying if I told you I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief when the doorbell rang at two minutes to nine. I went down the hall and saw a glowering Michael Tobin, late of the New York City Police Department, through the one-way glass. “Come in,” I said, trying to force a smile. “You are right on time.”

  “Yeah, well I do happen to know my way around this town,” Tobin muttered, not bothering to fake a smile. He stomped in, saw the rack, and hung his coat and hat on it. “Okay, dammit, let’s get on with this crap. Where’s your boss?”

  “Follow me.” I led him to the office and motioned toward the red leather chair, which he dropped into.

  “Is he going to keep me waiting?” Tobin demanded.

  “I am not, Mr. Tobin,” Wolfe said as he walked in and moved around behind his desk, sitting. “I am about to have beer. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Trying to get me drunk, are you?”

  “Not at all, sir. I assume you are a man of the world, fully capable of holding your alcohol. But if you prefer to abstain, that is your prerogative.”

  That drew a guttural laugh. “Ah, hell, sure I’ll have something,” Tobin said, turning to me. “You know how to make a martini?”

  “I’ve been mixing them for people for years,” I told him as Wolfe made a face. He thinks anyone who drinks gin is a barbarian—and that includes me when I have the occasional gin and tonic on a summer day. I made Tobin’s martini and handed it to him, getting a slight nod of thanks.

  Fritz came in with Wolfe’s beer, and after he opened one of the two bottles and poured it into a glass, he considered Tobin. “Mr. Goodwin explained why I wanted to see you?”

  “In a fashion,” he gruffed. “It seems you think that cheap columnist was murdered, and the fact that I’m here means that you believe that I’m a suspect.”

  “You did not like Mr. Clay.”

  “Hah, now there’s an understatement if I ever heard one! The man was a bastard, plain and simple.”

  “When you were in prison, you were heard to say that you would ‘get’ Cameron Clay if it was the last thing you did.”

  “A lot is said when you’re inside,” Tobin answered with the wave of a hand. “I can tell you this, though: If it hadn’t been for that S.O.B., I never would have served time, not a minute of it. The case against me was weak, but Clay’s constant shots at me influenced the jury, I’m positive of that. It was a case of trial by newspaper.”

  “You deny brutalizing prisoners?”

  “Hell, I may have roughed a few of them up all right, I won’t deny it, and so did plenty of others on the force. But if you knew what some of those lowlifes had done to their victims, you’d have roughed them up, too.”

  “Can you account for your time when Mr. Clay died?” Wolfe asked.

  “That was … when?”

  “Last Tuesday night and the early hours of Wednes
day.”

  “Uh, yeah, I was home watching television until about midnight and then I went to bed.”

  “Was someone with you?”

  “No, I was the only one home. My wife was visiting her sister in Ohio for about a week. So there I am, without an alibi. Why don’t you call Cramer and have the inspector himself come over to put the cuffs on me? He’s never liked me anyway.”

  “The official position of the police department, and that includes Inspector Cramer, is that Mr. Clay killed himself.”

  “But obviously, someone else thinks otherwise, or you wouldn’t be talking to me. By the way, how many people know I’m here?” Tobin demanded, leaning forward and slapping a palm down on the desktop.

  “Only Mr. Goodwin and me.”

  “Yeah? I know from Goodwin that you’ve talked to other suspects. What did they tell you?”

  “Really, Mr. Tobin. Do you expect an answer to that question? I would no more reveal what other people have said in this office than I would tell anyone else the content of my conversation with you.”

  “Okay, then tell me this: How many people do you think could have bumped off Clay?”

  “I will not respond to that question, either.”

  Another harsh laugh. “Maybe that’s because there are probably dozens in this town who would have liked to get rid of him, maybe even more. Did you ever meet the bastard?”

  “Yes, once.”

  “Once should have been enough for you to see what a miserable, detestable skunk he was.”

  “You certainly sound like someone who disliked Cameron Clay enough to murder him,” Wolfe said.

  “I did not kill him, Wolfe, but make no mistake—I am not sorry for a second that he’s dead,” Tobin said. “If that makes me a suspect in your eyes, I can’t help it.”

  “I appreciate your candor, sir, although I must say that without an alibi for several critical hours, you may indeed find yourself taking on the role of a suspect at some point.”

  Tobin took a drink and snorted. “Once convicted, forever presumed guilty of anything else, right? Hell, we moved out of New York City proper because of the way our neighbors looked at us and shunned my wife. But it’s not much better up in sweet old Yonkers. Oh sure, I’ve got a buddy who gave me some work in that flower shop, but we still get looks from neighbors. If it wasn’t for her loyal bridge club ladies, my wife wouldn’t have any friends. I sure don’t have many anymore myself.”

  “According to an item in one of Mr. Clay’s columns, you seem to have a friend in Aldo Marshall, or should we refer to him as Aldo Moretti?” Wolfe said.

  Tobin went rigid. “Yeah, I know all about that.”

  “Was the item about you taking a trip to the Caribbean with Mr. Marshall correct?”

  “It was. We’re old friends.”

  “So I gather. Should one raise questions about a former police officer being an old friend of a major figure in the crime syndicate?” Wolfe asked.

  “I got nothing to say about that.”

  “I’ve heard and read that a lot of cops feel you got a raw deal,” I said, “so there are still people on your side. A number of them wrote letters in the papers defending you and criticizing Clay.”

  “Yeah, that was nice to know, even if it didn’t do me one damned bit of good. Say, Goodwin, you make a hell of a martini,” Tobin said, holding up his glass in salute.

  “Want another?”

  “Sure, why not,” he said, turning to Wolfe. “You got any more questions to throw at me?”

  “For purposes of discussion, let us assume you had nothing to do with Mr. Clay’s death. Would you care to speculate on anyone else’s involvement?”

  Tobin shrugged. “I wouldn’t know where to start, other than maybe that black councilman from Harlem—what’s his name, Beardsley. He got ripped in Clay’s Gazette column about as often as I did. Beyond him, there’s at least twenty others who he’s torn into from time to time. One thing I’m curious about,” he continued, pausing to sip his second martini. “What makes you so sure this was murder? My old employers seem convinced it was a suicide, at least based on what I’ve been reading, which is my only source these days. It will hardly surprise you to learn that I have no pipelines into the department any more. In fact, if the brass at 240 Centre Street never hear my name again, it will be too soon.”

  “In answer to your question, I am not convinced Mr. Clay was murdered, but there is reason to doubt that he did away with himself.”

  “I suppose it’s fruitless to ask, but I will anyway: Who is your client?”

  “You are correct, sir, in that asking will bear you no fruit.”

  Chapter 17

  Well, what do you think of him?” I asked Wolfe as I returned to the office after walking Tobin down the hall and locking the front door behind him.

  “He was basically as I expected, somewhat surly, unrepentant, defensive, and probably one who did not get along well with most of his superior officers.”

  “For starters, we already know that Cramer didn’t much care for him, to say the least.”

  “We have had our differences with the inspector over the years, but you know as well as I do that he is honest and, I believe, unimpeachable. He is fervent in upholding the integrity of the police department and would naturally detest anyone who brought shame upon it, as Mr. Tobin so manifestly did.”

  “You really nailed him on that trip to the Caribbean with the mobster Marshall. He didn’t even try to deny it. Also, he seems to feel that the only reason he was convicted was because of Clay’s columns and their influence on the jury.”

  “He envisions himself as a victim rather than as a perpetrator, as is so often the case with miscreants,” Wolfe said. “Man’s ability to indulge in self-deception knows no bounds.”

  “Nice. Who said that?”

  “I did, unless, of course, I was subconsciously parroting the words of one of the Greek philosophers, which I concede is possible although unlikely.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t go out on a limb. All right, so for now we place Michael Tobin, late of the New York City Police Department, on our ‘maybe’ list of suspects. Who would you like me to haul in next?”

  Wolfe leaned back, shutting his eyes. For just a moment, I thought he was going to begin that exercise where he pushes his lips in and out, in and out, and then after a period ranging from twelve minutes to just more than an hour—I know, I’ve timed every one of these exercises over the years—he opens his eyes and has solved the mystery. Not so this time, however. There was to be no denouement tonight.

  “That councilman, Millard Beardsley, I want to see him next,” Wolfe said, blinking. “Tomorrow, if possible.”

  “Would you like to see him in the morning, the afternoon, or the evening?” I asked in what I hoped was a bland tone.

  “The evening is, of course, preferable,” he said. “Nine o’clock would be the optimum time.”

  I briefly contemplated picking up my typewriter and throwing it at him, but figured that if I missed and it got dented, he would deduct the cost of a new one from my paycheck, so I settled on making a face at him, which he did not see because his book was in the way.

  After breakfast the next morning, I called the phone number I was given by Lon for Councilman Millard Beardsley. “Mr. Beardsley’s District Office, may I help you?” came a soft, sweet voice that was pleasant on the ears.

  “Would I by chance be able to speak to Mr. Beardsley in person today?” I asked her.

  “You certainly would, sir,” she said in her soft-as-suede tone. “This just happens to be one of Mr. Beardsley’s twice-monthly ‘I’m Here to Meet My Public’ days in our district office on 125th Street, starting at ten o’clock. Your timing is very good, sir; that is, if you are able to come here today.”

  I could have listened to her voice for an hour, but I decided to f
orgo the pleasure and got the address from her. Twenty minutes later, I was in a northbound yellow cab, destination Harlem. Beardsley’s office was a storefront just a block down the busy main commercial street of Harlem from the famous theater and its marquee topped by the red letters vertically spelling out APOLLO.

  Peering through the windows, I saw that perhaps a dozen people stood inside, apparently in a line. I entered and was met immediately by a smiling black man in a double-breasted suit and tie. “Good morning, sir, are you here to see the councilman?” he said.

  “I am, if that is not a problem.” I had noted without surprise that everyone ahead of me in the line that led to Millard Beardsley was black.

  “It is not a problem, not at all, sir. Mr. Beardsley makes time for everyone who comes to see him. Please be patient. He often spends many minutes speaking with a constituent about some problem. Are you by any chance a constituent of Mr. Beardsley’s?”

  “No, I am not, but I am a resident and a registered voter in this city, have been for many years, and I have a problem that I would like to discuss with him.”

  “The councilman often spends time here with people outside his district. I am sure he that will be happy to talk to you.”

  As I moved slowly ahead in the line that led ultimately to Millard Beardsley, I noticed a fetching young woman with a chocolate complexion talking on the telephone at a desk off on one side in the unadorned room. I couldn’t hear everything she was saying because of the chattering that went on among those ahead of me in line, but I did hear enough to know she was the sweet-voiced person who had answered when I called. I nodded toward her, but she was engrossed in her conversation and did not look in my direction.

  I was now the second person in line, which gave me the opportunity to study the councilman. He sat on a folding chair behind a mahogany table, while a burly, thick-necked man, the only other white person in the room, stood behind and slightly to one side of him, arms folded across his barrel chest. Obviously a bodyguard.

  The table at which Beardsley sat had two other folding chairs in front of it, one of which currently was occupied by a heavy-set woman of middle age whose complaints about her landlord were punctuated by sobs and the occasional “I swear that man is Satan himself!”