I looked at those remaining names and decided, for no particular reason, to tackle the lawyer, Roswell Stokes, next. For help with this, I turned to our own longtime attorney, Nathaniel Parker.
“You and your boss in some kind of trouble again?” Parker said when I reached him in his office. “Seems like that’s the only time I ever hear from you.”
“Not true,” I said, pointing out that he had dined with us a few months back and had raved at length about the Cape Cod clam cakes.
“Point taken, Archie. That was a meal to remember, as Fritz’s so often are,” Parker said. “I withdraw my earlier comment and hereby beg the court’s forgiveness. What can I do for you?”
“For reasons I cannot go into at present, I need to talk, preferably in person, to one Roswell Stokes.”
“Ah, so you would have dealings with the Vulture? At some point down the road, I’d be most interested in learning what that is all about.”
“The Vulture, eh?”
“That is what he’s known as in our legal circles. He goes after big fees with the same ruthless, single-minded determination with which vultures devour their prey. Unfortunately for you, I don’t know Stokes well enough—nor do I care to—to set up a meeting.”
“That’s not what I’m shooting for. I assume he eats lunch out.”
“I suppose so.”
“I would like to learn where he eats, and then approach him in a restaurant.”
“I may actually be of some help there. An old law school classmate of mine is a partner in his firm, Mason, Chalmers, and Stokes. I can find out from him if Stokes does dine out, and if so, where. Did you have a specific date in mind?”
“Yes, today, if possible.”
“Well, make no small plans! All right, Archie, I’ll take advantage of the good old college connection and see what I can come up with.”
Parker called me back fifteen minutes later. “Roswell Stokes has a one o’clock reservation at the Melrose Club on East Fifty-Fourth Street. He eats there almost every day, according to my source.”
“Damn, a private club! That’s what I was afraid of.”
“No, no, it’s not, although it tends to act like one. It is very clubby in appearance, a lot of dark paneling and bookcases and subdued lighting, but it’s a restaurant open to the public. I’ve eaten there numerous times, and the food is absolutely first-rate. Wait … let me amend that. It is first-rate to most people, but probably not to you, given who prepares your meals.”
“Remind me what Stokes looks like. I have seen his picture in the newspapers, but not recently.”
“He’s hard to miss. He will probably be the tallest diner in the place. I’d guess around six feet five, and he has black hair that tends to fall across his forehead, an affectation if you ask me. He probably has his barber cut it so it behaves that way. He’s slender and has a long face with a pointed chin, which may really be how he got tagged as the Vulture.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. Just remember to fill me in someday. Off the record, of course, I hope that whatever is going on bodes ill for Mr. Stokes.”
“I take it that he’s not popular within the profession?”
Parker chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly, to say the least. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been disbarred, given some of his outrageous performances in the courtroom. Lawyers have a bad enough reputation as it is, and Stokes just makes it worse, especially given many of his clients.”
“Mobsters?”
“He has never met one of them he didn’t like, or at least didn’t like to defend. But I do have to say this, Archie. Despite all the histrionics, the man is good, really good. He can play a jury like a concert virtuoso plays a Stradivarius violin. I saw him in action once years ago, defending a really despicable character who deserved a life sentence, but by the time Stokes had finished describing what a terrible childhood this guy had, three of the jurors were crying—one of them a man. The defendant was found innocent after a deliberation of less than half an hour.”
“Maybe Stokes hypnotized the jury,” I suggested.
“In a sense, I suppose you could say he did. They certainly seemed spellbound by his closing argument. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years in this profession.”
“Well, I will try to avoid looking him in the eye when I meet him. Thanks for the information.”
I looked up the eatery in the phone book and called, getting a stuffy-sounding man who proclaimed that I had reached “The Melrose Club.” I asked for a one o’clock reservation for one, receiving a sniff in reply. “Just one person?” he said after the sniff as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Does that pose a problem?”
“No, no, sir, not at all,” he said, clearing his throat. “It is just that we do not often get singles during the lunch hour at the Melrose.” I briefly—very briefly—considered apologizing for being me, then briefly considered suggesting that the man take a flying leap off the George Washington Bridge, but I opted to do nothing more than give him my name.
After telling Fritz I would regretfully miss his lunch, I put on a conservative suit and tie that I felt were appropriate for The Melrose Club. I took a taxi north to East Fifty-Fourth Street, arriving at my destination at three minutes to one. The building presented a formidable facade: windowless stone exterior, art nouveau canopy, and bronze double doors. But it lacked one of the accoutrements of any restaurant that has aspirations—a uniformed doorman.
I pushed in, turned my outerwear over to a smiling coat-check girl who had more dimples than a used golf ball, and found myself face-to-face with a tuxedoed maître d’ with a grim expression. When I gave him my name, he nodded curtly, saying, “Oh yes, the single.” I figured he would stick me next to the kitchen door, but surprisingly, I got shown to a table against one wall that gave me a clear view of the entire high-ceilinged, chandeliered room. The tables were placed discreet distances from one another, with almost all of them occupied by middle-aged men. I probably was younger than 85 percent of them.
It did not take long to spot Stokes. He sat about three tables away, in animated conversation with two others. I put his age at fifty-five, which could well mean that he dyed the black hair that fell across one side of his forehead as Nathaniel Parker had described to me.
I ordered scotch on the rocks from a friendly waiter with a warm smile who could have given lessons in civility to both the maître d’ and the guy I had given my reservation to over the telephone. As I sipped my drink and perused the menu, I studied Stokes, who I had in right profile. He was doing more of the talking than his companions, and judging by his expression and their frequent nods, he was driving a point home.
When the waiter came for my lunch order, I handed him a folded sheet of white paper. “Do you know which gentleman is Mr. Stokes?” I asked, nodding in the direction of his table.
“Oh yes, sir, I certainly do. He dines with us most days; he’s a regular here, a fine gentleman.”
“Would you give this to him, please? He will understand.”
The waiter nodded, left me, and went to Stokes’s table, handing him the paper. The lawyer took it, unfolded it, frowned, and looked around the room. When his glance finally fell on me, I nodded and smiled. He did not smile, nor did I expect him to.
My filet of sole was adequate but did not measure up to Fritz’s standards, which was no surprise. As I ate, I kept watching Stokes. He never again looked in my direction, but I knew I had to be on his mind. I had figured that when he and his party had finished their meal, the other two would leave and he would linger behind. I was right.
Stokes waved a good-bye to his luncheon companions and marched over to my table, where I sipped an after-meal coffee, very good coffee. Grim-faced, he glowered down at me. “I did not appreciate this,” he muttered, tossing the crumpled-up note down on the table.
<
br /> “Sorry, but I felt it was the best way to meet you.”
“I think that you had damned well better explain yourself,” Stokes demanded.
“First have a seat, and share this pot of coffee with me. They sure know how to brew it here.”
“I will remain standing, thanks. Now what’s all this about Nero Wolfe and Cameron Clay?”
“As I indicated in my missive, there is reason to believe that Mr. Clay was murdered.”
Stokes swore. “Based on what I have read in the newspapers and heard on the air, the police do not appear to share in that belief, Mr. Goodwin.”
“At the risk of my being branded a skeptic or a naysayer, the police have been known to stumble on occasion. In fact, I seem to recall numerous instances in which individuals arrested by the police and charged by the district attorney’s office were later freed through the most effective courtroom work of one Roswell Stokes.”
That stopped him for a second, as was intended. We were in my courtroom now, with me sitting and Stokes standing. He drew himself up to his full impressive height.
“I am not accustomed to being summoned by anyone, least of all a private detective,” he huffed, trying without success to act as if he had been insulted.
“As you must know, Nero Wolfe is not just any private detective.”
“I am certainly well aware that he has garnered a great deal of publicity over the years.”
“Much as you have in your own field, Mr. Stokes. Why don’t you sit down and have some coffee?”
The lawyer reluctantly folded his lanky frame into a chair opposite me as my smiling waiter immediately materialized. “Coffee for you, Mr. Stokes?”
“Yes, thank you very much, Raymond. Now Mr. Goodwin, just why does your boss want to see me?”
“Did you know that in the weeks before he died, Cameron Clay received a series of threatening telephone calls?”
“I did not.”
“I believe it is fair to say Clay was somewhat unnerved by these calls, and he suggested five individuals who he said were the most likely to have been behind the threats.”
“Only five!” Stokes roared, causing nearby diners to look our way. “Hell, that man had alienated scores of people in his columns over time.”
“You were among those scores,” I said. “Isn’t it true that you once told a newspaper writer that ‘This city has one too many newspaper columnists, and something should be done about it’?”
“I never mentioned Clay’s name,” Stokes said stiffly.
“Yes, but you didn’t have to, did you?”
“There are several columnists whom I find distasteful.”
“Okay, have it your way. I said moments ago that you were among the scores Clay had alienated. Let’s narrow that: You were among the five Clay suspected of making threatening calls.”
“Really, Mr. Goodwin,” Stokes said, folding his arms across his chest. “To suggest that I would be party to such a sophomoric stunt is ludicrous.”
“I am not suggesting it; Clay did. I urge you to visit Mr. Wolfe. Others among those five already have been to see him. You would be conspicuous in your refusal.”
“Guilty by absence, is that it? I will not be browbeaten.”
“Like you have often browbeaten witnesses?”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Stokes said, making a move to rise.
“Of course, you don’t, and nothing whatever is holding you here. But you might find it instructive to spend some time with Mr. Wolfe.”
“Instructive? Is that a threat?”
“By no means. I am hardly in a position to threaten anyone. But you are a brilliant man, and so is Nero Wolfe. I believe you would find an evening in his company to be stimulating.”
“Your attempt at flattery is transparent,” he said, curling a lip.
“So I have been told by many, including several women. Just one of my numerous weaknesses.”
Stokes sipped coffee and said nothing for at least a half minute. “When would Wolfe want to see me?”
“How about tonight, say nine o’clock?”
Another few seconds of silence. “Give me the address.”
Chapter 20
I got back to the brownstone a few minutes before four, the time when Wolfe would begin his afternoon session with the orchids. “I know how you feel about lawyers, with the possible exception of Nathaniel Parker,” I told him. “So you had better steel yourself, because this very evening, you will be visited by none other than the great Roswell Stokes.”
“How did you manage that?”
“We just happened to have lunch today in the same restaurant, and I gave this note to the waiter to take over to Mr. Stokes.” I handed Wolfe the now-crumpled note. It read:
Dear Mr. Stokes,
Nero Wolfe, the well-known private investigator, requests your presence at his office at the earliest opportunity to discuss the death of Cameron Clay and the possibility that Mr. Clay was murdered. It would be to your advantage to see Mr. Wolfe before he holds a press conference.
“Outrageous!” Wolfe roared. “I have no intention of convening a press conference, and you know it.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“That proverb has been misused so often by so many that it long since ceased to have any meaning. Also, I do not consider us to be in desperate times, certainly not where Mr. Stokes is concerned.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I can call him and tell him not to bother coming over here tonight. …”
“I did not suggest that. We shall see the attorney,” Wolfe said, rising and walking out of the office and toward the elevator.
We risked getting into something of a rut, hosting a visitor every night at nine. With the weekend looming, though, there would be a break before I went after the diva, Serena Sanchez, and Kerwin Andrews, the self-styled master builder and developer.
Stokes showed up right on time. I let him in and did the usual butlering in the front hall before directing him to the office. Wolfe was seated at his desk. “Mr. Stokes,” he said with the hint of a nod.
“Mr. Wolfe,” the lawyer said with his own slight nod as he parked himself in the red leather chair. “I suppose courtesy would dictate that I say I am happy to be here, but I have not always been known to be courteous.”
“Nor have I,” Wolfe said. “I have all of the simplicities, including that of brusqueness.”
“Then we agree upon something,” Stokes said. “With that pleasantry now out of the way, I am interested in exactly what you have to say about the death of that columnist.” The last two words came out as though they were a disease.
“First, I must apologize to you, sir. I should immediately have offered you refreshments. It is a poor host indeed who imbibes while his guest’s flagon remains unfilled,” Wolfe said, gesturing to the beer in front of him.
“I did wonder about that,” Stokes said with a thin smile, “when I noticed that well-stocked bar cart against the wall.”
“Name your poison,” I said, getting up to play bartender.
“Rye on the rocks, but not too many rocks,” the lawyer said. While I had filled the order, Wolfe considered our guest.
“I understand Mr. Goodwin has made it known to you that Cameron Clay may have been murdered.”
“Yes, he did that with all the skill of a sixth grader passing a note down the row to a friend.”
“Do not be too hard on Mr. Goodwin. He is a good man, intrepid and trustworthy, but he does lack some of society’s niceties, unlike you and me.”
“Well said. But about Clay?”
“Yes, I digressed. I have a client who is convinced that Cameron Clay was murdered.”
Stokes took a sip of his drink and nodded his approval in my direction. I scowled in return, still smarting from his “sixth
grader” comment. Yet I did have the satisfaction of knowing that because of my so-called childish trick, the lawyer was right where we wanted him: sitting in the red leather chair.
Our guest turned back to Wolfe, unfazed by my scowl. “A query: Did you seek out this client, or did he come to you?”
“A fair question,” Wolfe replied. “This individual sought me out. I would not have sought a commission. I had met Mr. Clay previously, and he was not someone I found in the least likable.”
Stokes laughed heartily. “You and countless others. As I told Mr. Goodwin earlier today, there are scores in this town he has alienated.”
“So I have learned. However, Mr. Clay felt only a handful of his detractors were likely to threaten him.”
“And I am apparently said to be one of them.”
“You certainly were known to bear him animus, and he wrote disparagingly about you in his column with some frequency,” Wolfe said.
“Indeed he did.”
“Did you ever consider legal action?”
“Not for a moment. What would it have achieved for me? I have no doubt that I could have gotten him on grounds of libel, but what price victory?”
“The great trial lawyer seen as bullying an intrepid columnist, a so-called ‘man of the common people,’” Wolfe observed.
“Precisely. As many as there were who disliked—even detested—Cameron Clay, there were far more, you might term them the ‘great unwashed,’ who saw him as the defender of the little guy—the cabbie, the seamstress, the garbage hauler, the sales lady, the janitor, the garment worker, the longshoreman. These people and others like them were the backbone of his audience. I would have won any case I brought against Clay, but I would have been crucified in the court of public opinion.”
“A pyrrhic victory.”
“Hah, not even that. I would have been seen as a clear loser. I’m sure that others who Clay ripped into in his columns felt the same way about going to court. Very few suits have ever been brought against him, as you probably are aware.”
“Yes, I am. I would be interested to know if you can account for your whereabouts in the early hours of—Archie, what was the date of Mr. Clay’s death?” I gave it to him.
Stop the Presses! Page 12
