“Really? What has he come up with, Mr. Goodwin?”
“I don’t know. He has not chosen to share his findings with me, which is not without precedent.”
“Will … those five be there?”
“You mean the ones he suspected as the likeliest to be behind the telephone calls? Yes, they will.”
“One of them has to be guilty,” McNeil said with fervor. “I’m dying to know who it is.”
“You will not have to wait long to find out.”
“That is a great relief to me, Mr. Goodwin,” McNeil said. “Part of the reason I insisted on going through all of Cameron’s papers is that I hoped to find something, anything at all, that might point to who killed him.”
“Has anything helpful turned up?”
“No, nothing whatever. I’m not surprised, but I really had hoped I might somehow get lucky and find a clue of some sort. Can you give me any idea of what to expect tonight?”
“I really can’t, because I don’t know myself. Mr. Wolfe does not always share his plans with yours truly, as I alluded to a few minutes ago.”
“Other than me, will anyone from the Gazette be there tonight?”
“That much I can tell you, as they are Mr. Wolfe’s clients in this investigation. I believe you may see both the owner and the editor.” I did not mention Lon Cohen, as I wasn’t sure Wolfe planned to invite him.
“I will be there tonight, Mr. Goodwin. I’m looking forward to it.”
So was I, although likely for different reasons.
Chapter 29
Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, placed orchids in his desk vase, and rang for beer. After asking if I had slept well, he riffled through the morning mail.
“All of the people you requested be present tonight have answered in the affirmative,” I told him.
“Satisfactory. Get Mr. Cohen on the telephone.”
Still recovering from getting two “satisfactory” comments on the same case—a first—I dialed Lon’s number as Wolfe picked up his instrument.
“Mr. Cohen, this is Nero Wolfe, with Archie also on the line. I am prepared to announce my findings regarding Mr. Clay’s death. Can you arrange to have Mr. Haverhill and Mr. Cordwell present at nine tonight?”
“I don’t know what other plans they might have made, but I have a feeling they would quickly cancel them in light of your meeting.”
“I would also like you to be present, if it does not inconvenience you.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I will call both of them and get back to Archie.”
After we hung up, Wolfe took a sip of beer and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “Now call Inspector Cramer,” he said, again picking up his receiver.
“Good morning, Inspector, it’s Archie Goodwin. Mr. Wolfe would like to speak to you.”
“Yeah, well I’d like to talk to him, too,” he muttered.
“I am on the line,” Wolfe said.
“Well, it’s your nickel,” Cramer said. “You go first.”
“Very well. I have come to a conclusion regarding the death of Cameron Clay, and I plan to discuss that conclusion here tonight at nine.”
“Another one of your shows, huh? And I assume you plan to prove it was murder, not suicide.”
“That can wait until tonight. I thought you might want to be present.”
“Damned right I want to be present, and I’ll bring Stebbins with me.”
“I assumed you would, and he will be welcome. Now you had a subject you wanted to discuss with me.”
“You’ve already covered it. I wanted to know what progress you had made, if any, on the Clay business, and I gather that I will find out tonight.”
“You will, sir.”
“But I do have a question at that. Are you planning to publicly embarrass the police department tonight, and by extension, me?”
“I am not, sir, you have my word on that.” That drew a snort from the inspector, who banged down his telephone.
The phone rang seconds later. “My bosses both will be there tonight,” Lon Cohen said. “But Eric Haverhill demands to know what you have found out.”
“He will learn that tonight, Mr. Cohen.”
“It doesn’t seem like he can wait that long. He’s going to be calling you. I tried to put him off, but he can be the proverbial bull in the china shop. Cordwell also tried to put the brakes on him without success. Be prepared for a call—very soon.”
“Very soon” came not a half minute after Lon hung up. “This is Eric Haverhill. I would like to speak to Mr. Wolfe,” he said curtly.
I cupped the speaker and whispered Haverhill’s name to Wolfe, who scowled and picked up his phone.
“This is Nero Wolfe.”
“Eric Haverhill here. I understand you are going to name Cameron Clay’s killer tonight.”
“I am going to summarize my findings,” Wolfe corrected. “I trust you will be present.”
“This comes with no advance notice whatever. I am an extremely busy man, as I know you can appreciate.”
“I do appreciate that, sir, and I apologize for the late notice, but it could not be helped.”
“Huh! Well, I have changed some plans to suit you, so I will be able to be there. But I need to know in advance who you have identified as Clay’s killer.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Haverhill, but it doesn’t work that way. You and everyone else who will be present tonight will learn of my findings together.”
“But I am your client, dammit!”
“You are indeed, sir. That entitles you to a full explanation of what I have determined, and you will receive that explanation tonight, not before.”
“I’ve got to tell my wife something. She’s dying to know who killed Clay.”
“Feel free to bring her with you tonight then.”
“Oh no, she would be uncomfortable in that gathering. I assume all of the suspects will be present.”
“They will.”
“And will members of the police be there as well?”
“Yes.”
“What about Commissioner Humbert?”
“He has not been invited. It would surprise me were he to appear.”
“Well, that’s something anyway. I don’t think I could stand to look at him again. The man is an incompetent. There is no other way to describe him.”
“I will see you here at nine o’clock, sir,” Wolfe said, hanging up on his client.
“That’s one way to shut him up,” I said. “I just hope he doesn’t fire you after all we’ve been through.”
“Mr. Haverhill is impulsive and impatient. I am sure he poses challenges for Mr. Cordwell as he tries to edit and publish his newspaper.”
“No doubt. Haverhill seems to be a loose cannon.”
“Another one of your colorful phrasings. There are times when I feel I need a translator when talking to you,” Wolfe said.
“I have felt the same way about your vocabulary for years,” I replied. “At last things are beginning to even up between us.”
That afternoon, while Wolfe was upstairs with his orchids, I got the office ready for the evening’s festivities. We would have eleven guests, counting Cramer and Stebbins, who usually chose to stand in the back of the room. So that meant we needed seating for nine, including the red leather chair, where Haverhill, as the client, would be parked. I lined up two rows of chairs, four in each row, in front of the desk.
Then I stocked the bar, taking our guests’ preferences into consideration. I made sure there was plenty of scotch for Haverhill, Cordwell, Andrews, and Lon Cohen; a bottle of the single-malt scotch for Millard Beardsley; rye for Roswell Stokes; martini mixings for Tobin; and sherry for Serena Sanchez.
As I was puttering in the office, Fritz stood in the doorway with an anxious expression. “We are having guests tonig
ht, Archie?”
“We sure are. Mr. Wolfe is going to put on one of his shows, which will mean more money in the bank.”
“I hope he is getting enough to eat,” he said, wringing his hands. Fritz worries when Wolfe has to go to work, and he worries when we don’t have a case. There’s no pleasing the man.
“I wouldn’t fret about his food intake. You of all people know how much he’s getting, and it’s more than what two average humans combined consume.”
He nodded, but the concerned look stayed on his puss as he returned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on tonight’s dinner, cassoulet de Castelnaudry, which I refer to as “boiled beans,” much to Fritz’s dismay. They were my favorite beans, however, and as was often the case when this was the main course, it would be followed by pumpkin pie.
As invariably happens when Wolfe holds one of his revelations, he was calm and relaxed in the hours leading up to the night’s events, while I got the jitters. Part of the reason for this tendency may be that he knows precisely where he’s going, while I am usually in the dark, at least to some degree. At dinner, he held forth on how and why the population growth of the United States was continuing to shift to the South and the West. “Does that mean we should move to Los Angeles or Miami to be part of the trend?” I said, to which he shuddered.
Wolfe not only would never live anywhere but in New York City, he also considers trips to such far-flung places like Philadelphia or Boston as major expeditions to be avoided at all costs. Sure, he has left the brownstone—and the city—on rare occasions, but only for what he considers extremely good reasons.
After dinner, he returned to the office with his coffee to read, while I puttered at my desk, rearranging drawers that didn’t need rearranging, then went to the safe to count the petty cash, which added up, and to oil my pistols. I consulted my watch every ten minutes, then went to the kitchen to see if Fritz needed any help—he didn’t—and I realized that my presence there was making him nervous as well.
Finally, I put my overcoat and hat on and walked around the block to kill time. It was a clear, crisp night, with a sky full of stars and a crescent moon. I drew in the February air, finding that it and the walk calmed me, and I returned to the brownstone at twenty-five minutes to nine, ready for the show to begin.
Chapter 30
When the doorbell rang at five minutes to nine, I was correct in assuming it was Inspector Cramer, who always shows up first for these shindigs of Wolfe’s. Also as usual, he was accompanied by Sergeant Purley Stebbins, with whom I have had a mutual dislike for years.
“Welcome,” I said to Cramer, who looked mad enough to chew on a chair leg. If he held true to form, he would get progressively angrier as the evening went on.
He mumbled something unintelligible in reply to my greeting and bulled his way in, hanging up his hat and coat. I merely nodded to Stebbins, with whom I rarely share words. He screwed up his bony, square-jawed face and did not even bother to return my nod. That pretty much summarizes the way it is with the two of us.
I followed the two cops into the office, where they took their usual places, standing, backs against the wall, behind the rows of chairs. “Wolfe’s waiting in the wings so he can make his typical entrance,” Cramer observed, jamming an unlit stogie into his mouth.
“It’s comforting that you know the drill after all these years,” I told the inspector, then, upon hearing the bell, headed back down the hall to answer the door. It was the Gazette trio, with Eric Haverhill casting himself as the mopey-looking member of the group. I let them in, and the paper’s owner pushed past me as if I were invisible. Like Cramer, he chose to hang up his own coat, while I did the honors for Cordwell and Lon, both of whom thanked me.
I directed them all to the office, not that they needed any directing. Haverhill went straight for the red leather chair, thereby eliminating part of my role as usher. As he sat, the Gazette’s owner turned toward Cramer and Stebbins, his face reflecting a momentary puzzlement. Then he nodded his understanding and allowed himself a tight smile.
“Hello, Mr. Cramer, glad to see you. I guess you won’t be leaving here tonight empty-handed, will you?”
Cramer said nothing as I gestured Cordwell and Lon to seats in the front row. The bell squawked again, and I was off to the door, opening it to the grim-faced expressions of Tobin and Andrews, who did not appear to know each other. I went through the coat routine with them and got them seated in the last two front row seats, then headed back to the door.
The last four guests had arrived simultaneously, and I breathed a sigh; everybody had showed. The three men, Stokes, Beardsley, and McNeil, deferred to Serena Sanchez, who entered first and gave me one of her high-wattage smiles.
“See, I am here and I am on time, Archie Goodwin,” she purred. “I’ll bet you thought I was going to be late. I have a reputation for that, but not tonight.”
“I never doubted you would be prompt,” I said, smiling back and hanging up her sable as the others took off their own coats. After leading them to the office, I directed Serena to the chair in the back row that was farthest from my desk, put Beardsley next to her, then Stokes, and on my end, Larry McNeil.
“Somebody’s missing,” Stokes snorted.
“Mr. Wolfe will be with us shortly,” I told him, going behind his desk and pressing the buzzer. Thirty seconds later, he entered the office and circled behind his desk, sitting. He studied the assemblage and nodded. “Thank you all for coming tonight,” he said. “Do you know one another, or should I commence with introductions?”
“You can dispense with introductions, Wolfe,” Stokes said with a sneer, pleased with his play on words. “I believe we all have a pretty good idea who’s sitting around us. What we don’t know is why in hell we’re here.”
“I hope that soon will be apparent, Mr. Stokes,” Wolfe replied, pressing the same buzzer that I had a minute earlier. “First, I am going to have beer, and Mr. Goodwin will be glad to serve drinks to each of you. Give him your orders.”
“I did not realize this was a social occasion,” Kerwin Andrews snapped.
“It is not, sir, although I prefer a level of civility that I believe is best maintained in an atmosphere of cordiality, and I believe beverages can help to sustain that atmosphere.”
“Well said, Mr. Wolfe, very well said,” Millard Beardsley put in, nodding and clapping twice. “I will have your best scotch, as I did on my previous visit.”
“And as I recall, you want that straight up, because adding water is a sin,” I said. “Do I have that right?”
“You do, Mr. Goodwin, you most surely do,” the councilman answered with a grin.
“Mr. Stokes, I believe you prefer rye on the rocks.”
“Yes,” the lawyer said, “if you please.”
“And for you, a martini, I recall,” I said to Tobin, who nodded grimly, arms folded over his chest. He had apparently decided he would maintain a surly attitude tonight.
“Miss Sanchez, would you like a sherry?”
“Nothing, Arch—Mr. Goodwin. I seem to have a headache.”
“An aspirin, perhaps?”
“No, no, nothing.”
“Mr. McNeil, you like beer, and in the bottle. That leaves several other scotch drinkers to be taken care of,” I said. “And you take yours with soda,” I added for Kerwin Andrews. “You gentlemen of the press, scotch on the rocks for each, I presume.” I got agreement all around and delivered the drinks as Wolfe watched with approval. He knew I was putting on a show to ease the tension in the room.
“Now that everyone who wants one has a libation,” Wolfe said after everyone was served, “I would—”
“Excuse me, who are they and what are they doing here?” Kerwin Andrews interrupted, gesturing toward Cramer and Stebbins.
“They are Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins of the New York City Police Department’s Homici
de Squad, and they are here at my invitation.”
“I know who they are,” Tobin said, turning around and glowering at the cops and getting glowers in return. “I also know what this is, seeing them here. What we have is a goddamn kangaroo court, and I am being set up for the murder of Cameron Clay.”
Before Wolfe could respond, Serena Sanchez cut in. “I am sorry, Mr. Wolfe, but despite what that one gentleman said”—she gestured toward Stokes—“I do not know who any of these people are,” she said, looking around, “or even why they—and I—are here tonight.”
“My apologies, Miss Sanchez,” Wolfe said. “You are correct that I should have made introductions, which I now will do. Eric Haverhill, owner of the New York Gazette, occupies the red chair at the end of my desk. In the front row, starting on my left, are Ashton Cordwell, editor of the Gazette, and Lon Cohen, also of the Gazette. Next are Kerwin Andrews, a well-known real estate developer, and Michael Tobin, late of the New York City Police Department.
“In the back row,” Wolfe continued, “City Councilman Millard Beardsley is on your immediate left, and next to him is Roswell Stokes, a prominent defense attorney. On the end sits Larry McNeil, who was an assistant to Mr. Clay at the Gazette for the last five years. And the woman who posed the question is Serena Sanchez, an opera singer who once was married to Cameron Clay.
“Now as to the reason for this gathering: I was commissioned by Mr. Haverhill and Mr. Cordwell to investigate the death of Cameron Clay to determine whether he was murdered, and if so, by whom. You call this a kangaroo court, Mr. Tobin. I assure you it is no such thing, and I suggest you withhold judgment until I am finished.
“In the days leading up to his death,” Wolfe continued, “Mr. Clay reported that he had received telephone calls threatening his life. He said he felt these calls were instigated by one of five persons, all of whom are in this room: Mr. Andrews, Mr. Tobin, Mr. Beardsley, Mr. Stokes, and Miss Sanchez. And not one of them has a plausible alibi for the overnight period during which Mr. Clay died.”
Stop the Presses! Page 18
