Corpus Corpus

by H. Paul Jeffers

  With the list tucked into an inside pocket, Bogdanovic said, "I'll see you at the party, Wiggy."

  "Why do I have a feeling, Sergeant B., that Santa Claus will not be the only one there with a surprise in his pack?"

  Unanswered, he returned to his breakfast.

  "EVEN THOUGH I'VE never read a Nero Wolfe story," Bogdanovic said as he and Dane left the store, "I cannot picture a man of Nero Wolfe's apparent dignity getting into a Santa Claus outfit."

  "The situation was dire. Archie had tricked Wolfe into believing that Archie was about to get married. He even showed him a marriage license."

  Opening the car door for her, Bogdanovic said, "What business was it of Wolfe's?"

  "Everything about Archie was Wolfe's business," she said, getting into the car, "especially if it involved the peace and quiet of a certain brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street."

  When Bogdanovic got behind the wheel, she continued, "You see, Archie carried his joke further by telling Wolfe he planned to settle down with the wife in Archie's quarters in the house. To get a glimpse of the bride-to-be, Wolfe managed to attend a Christmas party by persuading the host, a recent client by the name of Kurt Bottswell, to let him play the jolly old elf from the North Pole."

  Bogdanovic started the engine, "I presume these yuletide festivities were marred when someone was found murdered."

  "Yes. Poor Kurt. But he was not found murdered. He was poisoned before the eyes of the guests. The deadly stuff had been put into the Pernot he preferred to champagne. It's a wonderful yarn. I've made reading it a part of my Christmas rituals, along with a rereading of Sherlock Holmes's Christmas story, 'The Blue Carbuncle.' "

  "You can celebrate Christmas with Holmes and Wolfe all you like," Bogdanovic said as he made a U-turn. "I'll stick to ' 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.' "

  "If you attend Marian's party, you're going to be stuck with Wolfe. It is a tradition of Marian's get-together that 'Christmas Party' be passed among guests round-robin style, with each reading one page aloud until the story is finished. Of course, everyone tries to outdo one another in hamming it up. It's a lot of fun."

  Stopping at a red light at First Avenue, Bogdanovic said, "I'll pass on that, thank you."

  "I see. Participating in party games is not Sgt. Johnny Bogdanovic's style. There's too much danger of doing damage to the dignity and demeanor of the dedicated detective."

  "You get an A-plus in alliteration."

  "And you get a D-minus for deviousness."

  Bogdanovic looked at her askance. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

  "You all but came right out and told Wiggins that you suspect one of Marian's guests of murdering Theo."

  "Really? When and how did I do that?"

  "Why else would you ask for a list of people invited to her Christmas party?"

  "It was a routine security measure. I always obtain a list of the people who will be at an affair that Goldstein is planning to attend. There are a lot of crazies out there who'd love to get even with him. Not to get a list of the invited guests would have been a dereliction of my duty."

  When the light turned green, the car darted across First Avenue toward Second. "Since it is your policy to make a list and check it twice, maybe you should take the part of Saint Nick at Marian's shindig."

  "Only if you sit on my knee and tell me what you want for Christmas, little girl."

  "I can tell you now," she said, looking grim as Bogdanovic barely made the green to swing left to head downtown on Second. "I want to see Theo's murderer at the bar of justice as quickly as possible. And if it were in your power to grant it, Santa, I would ask you for the opportunity to prosecute him."

  "Cornelius Vanderhoff has the power. Thanks to the Mancuso fiasco, he's got three openings on his staff. Apply for one."

  "You are a superb detective, John, but you obviously do not have a clue into the workings of the mind of a district attorney. The reality of my recent courtroom joust with Theodore Janus, and all the attendant hullabaloo, is that there is no DA anywhere who would want me around. I have become too well known. My appearance in a courtroom would send a defense attorney running to the press to claim his client could not get a fair trial. And he would be right."

  "You're not considering giving up the law?"

  "I see no other possibility. I could never become a defense attorney. I realized that when I worked for Theo. And I certainly am not cut out for civil law. I find suing people, or defending those who are being sued, exceedingly boring. Nor am I a woman to bang my head against the glass ceiling of corporate law firms."

  "What will you do? Write a book?"

  "I have no desire to chase the fleeting glory of a ranking on the New York Times best-seller list. That would lead to disappointed expectations for a second book. I am not a writer."

  "How about running for elective office?"

  "I could make a joke about politicians being the only people held in lower public esteem than lawyers, with the possible exception of journalists."

  "May I interpret that as an indication that you've also rejected the idea of becoming one of those legal analysts who seem to have popped up all over TV screens like mushrooms?"

  "You may."

  "What are your other options?"

  "I might try my hand at teaching law. Since the big trial, I've had offers. Being on a law school faculty would give me an opportunity to try to make amends with my son for all the times I failed him as a mother."

  "I don't believe that."

  Turning away to look at storefronts and restaurants as the car sped down Second Avenue, she fell silent.

  Bogdanovic smiled. "I'll bet when you were a little girl, you poked around in all the closets looking for the gifts your mom and dad had tried their best to hide."

  "Didn't you?"

  "Of course. And I found them. Even then I had the instincts of a snooping detective."

  "I felt the stirrings of growing up to be a well-prepared lawyer, who, as you know, abhors surprises. Are you going to tell me how many people you suspect?"

  "That is shockingly un-Wolfian of you, Maggie. You know that the primary number in the corpus is three."

  "AS TO SLIPPING a little lethality into a cigar, it seems to me that only a cigar smoker would think of that," Dane said as she sat and Bogdanovic stood at the window and peered into the middle distance. "Were I you, John, I would concentrate on the cigar aficionados in Theo's life. Unfortunately, there were many."

  "But how many would have had been alone with his private stash of prized Cubans—and inject them with that poisonous concoction?"

  "Theo also kept a supply in a special travel humidor in his car's glove compartment."

  "The killer would still face the problem."

  "Perhaps there was no need to raid Theo's humidors. The lethal one could have been a gift."

  "If the poisoned cigar had been a gift," he said, turning away from the window, 'Janus would have smoked it immediately. A man offers a cigar to another man when they talk business or are in a social situation. After a good meal, for instance. It would be rude to accept a cigar and stick it in a pocket for later."

  "Very well, someone gave Theo the cigar at the Wolfe Pack dinner, knowing he would smoke it then and there."

  He returned to his desk and sat. 'Janus was the person who handed out the cigars and passed them off as having come from his private trove of rare Havanas."

  "Frankly, I don't see how anyone can tell the difference between one cigar and another. To me a cigar is just a cigar. And I think this reverence for cigars that come from Cuba is snobbishness based on the fact that there is an embargo on their importadon. I'd bet that the mystique of Cuban cigars would disappear if they were not so hard to get."

  "Would you happen to know where Janus obtained his?"

  "I presume he got them where they are readily available. He flew to the Caribbean frequently. He often went to Europe on business. And he took two weeks' vacation in London every year."<
br />
  "In other words, he smuggled them."

  "How difficult could it be to sneak in a box of cigars?"

  "Especially if you fly your own plane to the islands."

  "Even if Theo flew commercially, I can not imagine him being stopped by a customs official with a demand that he open his bags for a search."

  "That is an advantage of being rich and famous."

  "I fail to see the importance of where he got his cigars."

  "What's important is that whoever killed him had to be very well informed on the subject of his Cuban cigars."

  "I told you his passion for them was common knowledge."

  "Yes, but how common was it for someone to have such easy access to those cigars that he had no problem poisoning one? He kept them at his ranch, right?"

  "Correct. Plus the few in the travel humidor in his car."

  "That means that whoever poisoned one of the cigars had to have access to either his house or that car. Such an individual had to be regarded by Janus as a friend. I am not talking about social friends and acquaintances. I mean people he might invite up to the ranch for a weekend, or sit up with, talking, sipping brandy, and sharing his prized cigars to the wee hours of the morning. Intimate friends." He looked up from the notes. "How many people belonged to that select company?"

  "Very few. But I haven't been a member of Theo's intimate circle for several years. During that time he might have made new friends, or even dropped some. Living in California, I have not felt the need to keep abreast of matters concerning Theo's personal life. For that you'll have to talk to someone more attuned to the current and recent gossip."

  HANGING SLIGHTLY ASKEW against the background of a green window shade, the sign advised:

  HOURS: NOON TO MIDNIGHT

  IF CLOSED AND YOU MUSTHAVE A BOOK

  THIS MINUTE. KNOCK VERY LOUDLY

  Below, a smaller placard read:

  THANK YOU FOR NOT ASKING

  THE PROPRIETOR NOT TO SMOKE

  WIGGINS

  Three thumps resulted in the door's being opened a crack by a young man who seemed to have been routed from bed. Rubbing bleary eyes, he asked, "Yes?"

  "Tell Wiggins it's Sergeant Bogdanovic."

  From deep within in store, Wiggins's voice was a blast from a foghorn. "It's all right. He is not here to make a pinch. The sergeant isn't with the vice squad. You may admit him."

  The youth shouted, "There's a lady with him."

  Wiggins's voice was closer now. "It's still all right."

  As the door swung wide, the youth reached to his right and threw a switch that first produced a stuttering of fluorescent tubes above a milky white ceiling and then total illumination of the bookstore and its gigandc owner. A figure in a long scarlet robe, he resembled and moved with the deliberate gait of a cardinal ad¬vancing toward the altar, except that the center aisle of this cathe¬dral was formed by cases of books exalting the sixth of the Ten Commandments.

  "Congratulations, Sergeant B.," Wiggins boomed as he neared, "on your quick success in the Janus case." The huge head turned toward Dane. "It must be a great relief to you, Maggie."

  "It's very satisfying."

  Wiggins flashed a smile and returned his attention to Bog

  Abruptly rising, he said, "And I know just the person!"

  "Shouldn't you wait for Harvey to return?"

  "By the time he gets back, he'll have the written report."

  "I MUST SAY I am pleasantly surprised," declared Goldstein as Bogdanovic guided the car across the George Washington Bridge. "Here we are, dressed to the nines and on our way to a fancy dinner party, and John hasn't groused about it once. I have heard not one 'bah, humbug' concerning this party. Truly extraordinary."

  "It's Christmastime," Dane said, gaily. 'John is obviously caught up in the spirit of the season."

  "That's right," Bogdanovic answered, turning off the bridge on the New Jersey side. "Ho, ho, ho. And as Tiny Tim said, 'God bless us every one.' Except murderers."

  "Chief, I have a feeling we are misreading the mood of the man at the wheel," Dane said. "He might turn out to be the Grinch who stole Christmas."

  Presently, the car rolled through a neighborhood of gated stone walls, snow-dusted lawns, and electric candles in windows of stately houses at the ends of long driveways.

  As Bogdanovic turned into the lane leading to the home of Marian Pickering Henry, Goldstein said, "This is what millions of paperback sales gets you. Plus a couple of movie deals. It is hard to believe that only a few years ago the woman who resides here was a widowed suburban housewife. Now she's a millionaire."

  "Hooray for her," Dane said.

  Pressing a doorbell button next to a white door adorned with a giant Christmas wreath, Bogdanovic heard seasonal music within, and the unmistakable voice of Wiggins blaring, "Hold your reindeer, Santa will be there in a jiffy." A second later, the door swung open to reveal an enormous figure with a magnificent fluffy white beard that almost obscured his bulging red belly.

  Turning slightly away, he shouted, "Hold down the noise, people. Somebody called the cops!"

  Following him from a festive garland-draped, marble-walled foyer, they entered a massive living room rich with the pungent aromas of seasonal decorations. A hum of cheery voices was punctuated by the clinking of crystal glassware as a pair of young men dressed as Victorian butlers offered drinks from silver trays.

  With a squeeze of Bogdanovic's biceps and a wink Wiggins whispered, "They are all here, Sergeant B. Nick and Ariadne Stamos. Oscar Pendleton and his wife, Ellen. Admiral Home and the impossible wife who has been his anchor since Noah launched the ark. Judge Simmons, alone as usual. The others are neighbors of Marian's and various literary types who have no part in the drama you have in mind."

  Dane asked, "What drama is that?"

  "Don't play coy with me, Maggie," Wiggins huffed. "You know exactly what game is afoot here. The suspects are gathered. But please, Sergeant B., allow us to have a sumptuous dinner before you unmask the murderer."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Wiggins. I'm here because Goldstein ordered me to be."

  Tightening the grip on Bogdanovic's arm, Wiggins said, "What a naughty boy you are, misbehaving by telling a fib to Santa!"

  As Henry broke away from a cluster of guests, Bogdanovic's voice went low. "You're the one who had better behave himself."

  "I am so delighted you could all come," Henry exclaimed.

  "Your house is beautiful," Dane said. "The decorations are magnificent. The whole place smells of Christmases past."

  "Thank you. It took hours to make and arrange them. But, as they say, Christmas comes but once a year. I believe you know almost everyone here. If not, I'm sure Wiggins will introduce you. If you want a drink, ask a waiter and he'll bring it to you. In case you haven't noticed, I've tried to create a Sherlockian atmosphere, as you will discover when dinner is served in a few minutes. It will be roast goose with all the trimmings, although I can not guarantee one of you will discover a blue carbuncle. After dinner, it's coffee and cognac in this room, with cigars if you wish. Then we all join in reading 'Christmas Story.' Now, if you will excuse me, I must go to the kitchen to check on dinner."

  THE NEXT TWO hours passed as promised with a meal that Dane and Goldstein agreed would have delighted Sherlock Holmes, followed by after dinner drinks and the smoking of a few cigars, culminating with Henry's presenting to Wiggins a copy of the story of Archie Goodwin's attempt to trick Nero Wolfe into believing that his trusty assistant was about to get married.

  "With apologies for breaking with your cherished tradition, Marian," Wiggins said, setting the book aside, "I believe Sergeant Bogdanovic has a story of his own to tell that you may all find compelling. He's been working on it for several days. It is, of course, a murder mystery with a number of suspects and, I do hope, a few red herrings, plus a couple of surprising twists. Am I right, Sergeant B.?"

  "In fact, there were so many of each," Bogdanovic said, "I was n
ot at all sure I could come up with a believable ending."

  Oscar Pendelton declared, "Obviously you have, Sergeant, or you would not have contrived with Wiggins to set up this drama."

  "I confess to doing just that," Bogdanovic said, looking around the room. "But I'm content to let you all decide if I've merely succeeded in making a fool of myself. You be the judges."

  "And the jurors?"

  Bogdanovic smiled nervously at Henry. "May I proceed?"

  "With everyone on edge, Sergeant, how could I say no?"

  "Oh goodie," exclaimed Wiggins, plopping into a huge chair. "This is just like story time at summer camp when I was a kid!"

  "You were never a kid, Wiggins," said Goldstein. "You and that bookstore of yours just appeared one day."

  "I suspect we are already familiar with the crime in your story," said Pendelton. "Feel free to skip ahead and tell us how you tracked down the young man who killed Janus."

  "Finding William Newport was easy. Routine police work. But that provided the first twist in the case."

  "Don't tell me Newport was Janus's illegitimate son," said Pendelton. "Was he like Stapleton in The Hound of the Baskervilles, planning to come forward after a decent interval to claim an inheritance?"

  "The twist was much better than that, Oscar. It came in the course of the autopsy."

  "Why bother to autopsy a man who had been shot in the head?"