Stop the Presses!

by Robert Goldsborough

  Not twenty minutes later, the phone rang. “Really, Mr. Goodwin,” Millard Beardsley said, “I felt we had finished transacting our business when I visited you and Mr. Wolfe. What is it this time?”

  “Mr. Wolfe has completed his investigation into the death of Cameron Clay’s death, and he wishes to see you and several other individuals to discuss the matter.”

  “To ‘discuss the matter,’ you say? Precisely what does that mean? And who are these other individuals?”

  “Let me counter your questions with a question of my own. Do you have anything to fear by being present at this gathering?”

  “I do not!”

  “I can only tell you that all the others who will be here are Caucasian. Perhaps that is a stumbling block for you.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Goodwin,” Beardsley snapped. “That could be construed as a racist remark.”

  “I assure you, it was not meant as one. I merely felt I should give you some idea of the audience.”

  “You would give me a better idea if you gave me their names.”

  “I cannot do that, but I will say that you will know who several of them are.”

  “For some reason I am unable to pinpoint, I find you engaging, Mr. Goodwin. Although to be candid, I am not entirely sure I can trust you—or your very wily and intelligent employer, for that matter.”

  “Wily? I like that word. Maybe I’ll throw it at him the next time we have an argument. And we have our share of them. I don’t know what I can do to make you trust me, Mr. Beardsley, except to say this: What is the worst thing that can happen to you if you attend this gathering? I have gotten the impression—correct me if I am wrong—that you are secure in your position as a spokesman for some of this city’s most downtrodden and underprivileged residents. Is that a fair statement?”

  I waited several seconds for a response. “You are wily yourself, Mr. Goodwin,” he said. “You are good-looking, smart, and well spoken. Have you ever considered running for public office?”

  “Heaven forbid! I would not wish such an eventuality upon the citizens of New York. Of course, I could never get elected to anything, including dogcatcher, not that I would want to. This city is in enough trouble as it is. It needs more people like you, who are able to express concern for those who for many reasons suffer.”

  I could hear Beardsley exhaling. “When does Mr. Wolfe want to see me?”

  “Tomorrow night, nine o’clock.”

  “I am placing a certain amount of trust in you, Mr. Goodwin, for good or ill. If I attend this … this performance, I don’t know what else to call it, will I be held up to ridicule?”

  “I cannot conceive of any situation in which you would be the subject of ridicule,” I told him, secure in the honesty of my response.

  “Very well,” Beardsley said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I will be there at nine. I do know the way.”

  I cradled the phone, wondering how all of this would play out. I had been with Wolfe for so long that I had almost absolute trust in his ability to pull a rabbit out of a hat. But I felt that on this case, we were in uncharted waters, and I had an uneasiness as to the result.

  However, I was not being paid to fret and anguish, nor were those emotions I indulged in, so I pressed on.

  Chapter 27

  My next call was to Michael Tobin, one-time scourge of the New York City Police Department. I did not have his home number in Yonkers but gambled that he’d be at the florist where he worked part-time and where I had met him. I won the gamble.

  “Osborne’s Florist, the oldest and best in all of Yonkers, how may I help you?” came the sandpapery voice of the former cop.

  “Yes, you can be of help, Mr. Tobin,” I said. “You may remember me, Archie Goodwin, from Nero Wolfe’s office.”

  “I remember you. How could I forget? What’s the play?”

  “The play is that Mr. Wolfe is hosting a gathering tomorrow night in which he will reveal who killed Cameron Clay.”

  “Why should that affect me?” he snarled. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear, either, do you? It certainly would look odd if you were to be the only one of the five apparent suspects to stay away.”

  “Since when am I even a suspect?”

  “I said apparent suspect.”

  “All right, wise guy, just what’s in it for me if I show up—again—at Wolfe’s place? Tell me that, will ya?”

  “It will show that you’re confident enough of your innocence to make an appearance.”

  “Are any cops going to be there?”

  “That I don’t know. Mr. Wolfe doesn’t always take me into his confidence. I’m just a gofer.”

  “Is that so? Sorry, but I don’t buy it. You seemed to me to be right at home in that nice layout of Wolfe’s, almost like you owned the joint yourself.”

  “I put on a good act. He puts up with me only partly because I know how to mix a good drink for his guests.”

  “Well, those martinis you gave me were the real thing, I’ll give you that much, Goodwin. If I come to this party of yours, will I know any of the others?”

  “I can’t say for sure, because I don’t know who you know. What have you got to lose by showing up? I promise to mix you another martini, or maybe even two.”

  “I don’t like the setup. I didn’t kill Clay, although I didn’t do any crying when I heard he was dead. But if the cops need a fall guy, hell, I’m made to order for them. The top guys, particularly Humbert, are still sore that I got what they felt was a light sentence. They’d love to see me get life for this, or better yet, fry in that funny-looking throne with wires attached that they have up at Sing-Sing.”

  “What have you got to lose? You say you’re clean on the Clay business. Can anyone prove you were at his place when he caught it?”

  “Hell, you already know I don’t have an alibi for that night, and I’ve got a record. That’s all DA’s hotshots need.”

  “Maybe Wolfe will pin the tail on another donkey tomorrow night.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t like my chances.”

  “If that’s the case, what’s the difference whether you stay home or show up at West Thirty-Fifth Street? At least if you’re with us, you can defend yourself.”

  “Not that it would do a damned bit of good. But what the hell, you’re right. I might as well show up. If your boss is going to hand me to the cops, I’ll at least go down fighting. I feel like I’m boxed in.”

  “It’s possible you may be, but whatever happens, I’ve always heard that you’re one tough, hard-nosed son of a gun.”

  “You’re goddamn right about that, Goodwin. Okay, I will show up at your place, and I’ll also take you up on one or maybe two of those martinis of yours. They may be the last ones I’ll ever have.”

  Next up, I decided, was Roswell Stokes, aka “The Vulture.” Rather than trying to beard the man in his favorite restaurant, I chose the frontal attack, calling him at his law firm, the prestigious Mason, Chalmers, and Stokes.

  “Mr. Stokes is in conference at the moment, sir,” a crisp female voice recited. I say recited because it was surely her standard reply to anyone who called him out of the blue.

  “Well, if you would be so kind as to tell him Archie Goodwin telephoned, and it is important that I speak to him as soon as possible. He will understand the urgency,” I added, giving her our number.

  Ten minutes later, I heard from the attorney. “All right, what do you want this time, Goodwin?” he demanded.

  “First off, I didn’t want you to think I only use sixth-grade stunts in my work. Sometimes I take a more direct approach, which I’m doing now. Second, Nero Wolfe has come to a conclusion about the death of Cameron Clay.”

  “Am I supposed to start cheering at this point?”

  “I don’t care how you choose to r
eact, Mr. Stokes. But my boss is hosting a gathering tomorrow night of all the interested parties.”

  “I repeat my earlier comment. Should I cheer and applaud?”

  “You should show up at the brownstone tomorrow night at nine.”

  “What if I stay away?”

  “Your absence will be duly noted.”

  “By whom?”

  “I will leave that to your imagination, sir.”

  “I have heard, and read, about these ‘I will now name the culprit’ circuses that Nero Wolfe likes to hold. I’ve never understood how he—or you—gets all the suspects to show up for his performances, not that I am a suspect in this situation, mind you.”

  “Well, since you say you are not a suspect, why not come anyway and consider yourself an interested onlooker? As one who specializes in confrontation and persuasion, you’d find Mr. Wolfe’s methods intriguing and maybe even enlightening, I would think.”

  “I don’t need to be enlightened by Nero Wolfe.”

  “Have it your way, but you would be missing a most interesting evening.”

  “Who all will be there?” Stokes asked. “All of those people who Clay claimed to be of the most danger to him?”

  “Yes, that’s right, assuming you are not the lone absentee.”

  “Who else?”

  “That I am not at liberty to say. I can tell you, however, that no one in attendance should come as a surprise to you.”

  “You’re pretty damned coy, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way. I simply follow orders, which I find is the best way to conduct myself.”

  A long pause followed before Stokes broke the silence. “For some strange reason, Goodwin, and don’t ask me to explain it, I’ve decided to accept your offer. I don’t know if Nero Wolfe has ever been tripped up before, but I believe he will be this time, and I want to be there to see it.”

  “Who knows, you may very well be right,” I told him. “If so, it will be an event well worth witnessing.”

  Chapter 28

  I cradled the receiver and leaned back, stretching. Three down and three to go, counting Larry McNeil. I was getting damned tired of cajoling people into coming to the brownstone. Wolfe doesn’t pay me enough for this kind of work, I thought. Already on this case, I’ve told so many lies I’ve lost count of them, to say nothing of the half-truths and deceptions I have been a party to.

  Next, I decided to tackle Serena Sanchez, so to speak. My watch read six thirty, which meant she might be back in her hotel room after a session at the Juilliard. My luck held, and she answered on the third ring.

  “Archie Goodwin,” she said with a lilt. “It is nice to hear your voice.”

  “The feeling is mutual. I am calling with an invitation to visit Mr. Wolfe again.”

  “Why is that? I thought everything got covered when I was there before.”

  “This meeting is a little different. Mr. Wolfe has come to a conclusion as to how your ex-husband died, and he wants to explain it to all those who have an interest in the case.”

  “And what is that conclusion?”

  “I don’t know, because he hasn’t shared it with me.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Serena said.

  “You must keep in mind that Mr. Wolfe is a genius, while I am not and never will be. I can make a guess as to what he has concluded, but that is all it would be, a guess.”

  “Will you share that guess with me?”

  “No, because I don’t want to appear foolish if I am totally off the target, which is likely.”

  “You would never appear foolish to me, Archie.”

  “Thank you for that. But I’m going to keep my thoughts to myself for now. I am hoping you will come to the brownstone tomorrow night at nine.”

  “I had a dinner engagement, but I believe I can change it if you think it’s important that I be there.”

  “It is most important, Serena.”

  “Very well, I will come, Archie. But don’t worry about getting a taxi for me this time. I can do that myself.”

  “Too bad. I’m sure Mr. Aronson would have liked to hear more of your opera stories.”

  She laughed. “I am afraid I told him every single story I have. I would be repeating myself. But he was very nice to be so interested.”

  “It was genuine. I will see you tomorrow night.”

  My next call was to Kerwin Andrews. I had his office number and dialed it, getting no answer, which was hardly surprising given the time. Then I tried Larry McNeil’s home number, again striking out.

  I turned to Wolfe, who was doing a New York Times crossword puzzle. “Here’s a progress report,” I said. “Tobin, Beardsley, Stokes, and Miss Sanchez have promised to be here tomorrow night. Not surprising, nobody was very happy about being summoned once again, least of all Tobin and Stokes. I will try Andrews and McNeil in the morning. Any other instructions?”

  “No. I will call Inspector Cramer in the morning. He, too, will not be happy to be invited.”

  “But I’ve got a crisp Hamilton in my pocket that says he will show up.”

  “No bet. The inspector is highly predictable. He will be here, as will his sergeant.”

  The next morning after breakfast, I tried Andrews again at his office, this time with success, as a secretary put me through to him.

  “I thought we said all we needed to when I was at your place,” he said in a surly tone. “What’s this all about?”

  “Nero Wolfe has an announcement to make about the death of Cameron Clay, and he felt you would want to be present to hear it.”

  “What on earth for? Wolfe has a direct line to the Gazette, as I understand it. I can just wait and read it in the next day’s edition.”

  “Mr. Wolfe has expressly asked that you be part of the gathering tomorrow night at nine.”

  “Why?”

  “I am not privy to the reasons, but his are always sound ones.”

  “Give me the guest list.”

  “The four others besides you who Mr. Clay suspected of being behind the threatening telephone calls he received.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all I am aware of,” I lied … yet again.

  “Why do I feel like I’d be walking into a trap if I showed up at Wolfe’s little party?”

  “Can you give me a good reason why Nero Wolfe would want to trap you?”

  “I think the whole thing’s a frame-up. Somebody wants to pin Clay’s murder on me. If that sounds paranoid, I’m sorry, but that’s how I see it.”

  “If you’re talking about the police doing the framing, they really don’t want to see the murder pinned on anybody, it doesn’t suit their purposes. The murder rate in the city is already way up year over year, and they would far rather see Cameron Clay’s death go into the books as a suicide. Surely, you can understand that.”

  “I still don’t know why I have to show up. I humored Wolfe once, and that should be more than enough. Or is some relative of Clay’s trying to get revenge on me because I had the nerve to sue him?”

  “As far as I’m aware, Mr. Clay has no living relatives, or at least none who are close to him. If an individual wants to ‘pin’ Clay’s murder on you, as you phrase it, that person likely would do so whether you show up here tonight or not. Wouldn’t it be better for you to be present so you can defend yourself against any charges that might arise?”

  “Hah, so somebody will be there accusing me.”

  “I did not say that, Mr. Andrews. To my knowledge, no one will level charges against you, but in the unlikely occurrence that such is the case, you would be far better served by being present.”

  “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” he said petulantly.

  “Only an answer for every objection you have thus far raised. Believe
me, sir, tonight’s gathering is not intended as a ‘Get Kerwin Andrews’ feeding frenzy.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Can you give me any guarantees?”

  “Only that you will be treated fairly.”

  “Fairly is a relative term, Mr. Goodwin. What seems fair to you may well seem unjust to me.”

  “I can only say you will not be railroaded. Beyond that, I can say no more, except to point out that you would be most conspicuous by your absence.”

  “Well, I certainly would not want to be conspicuous, would I? So if I came to Wolfe’s place, it will be at my peril?”

  “I would rather say that it will be to your advantage.”

  “We seem to be talking past each other,” he said. “All right, I will be there. Can I bring my attorney?”

  “No, you cannot. No one else who is coming tonight will have legal counsel accompanying them.”

  “It seems I just can’t buy a break with you, can I? Okay, have it your way. I will see you at nine, prepared for some dirty tricks.”

  “There will be no dirty tricks, I promise you that, Mr. Andrews.” He mumbled something unintelligible and hung up.

  I was definitely going to ask Wolfe for a raise. He may have the brains on our team—no argument there—but I have the finesse. There is no way in the world that he could have sweet-talked this motley bunch into coming to the brownstone not once but twice in the last several days. I was worn out from cajoling and figurative arm-twisting, and I felt like a drink. But that was not about to happen this early in the day—I rarely drink in daylight, and almost never in the winter. Besides, I still had one call to make: To Larry McNeil, Clay’s loyal assistant.

  I tried him at the Gazette, with success. “Are you still going through Clay’s files?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir, I am. It seems he never threw anything away, which doesn’t surprise me given his pack-rat mentality. Most of what we’ve found is old reporters’ notebooks full of unintelligible—at least to me—scribblings, as well as letters to readers dating back years, some of them polite, some rude, depending on the tone of the letters he received from them.”

  “So it’s a walk, of sorts, down memory lane. It brings back memories for you, I’m sure. I’m calling to invite you to Nero Wolfe’s residence tonight at nine. He plans to announce his findings regarding Mr. Clay’s death, and he knew you would want to be present.”