Death on Deadline (17 page)

“He and his new wife live here, in a glitzy triplex over on the East Side. And despite the fact that he doesn’t own a New York newspaper—at least not yet—this has been his U.S. headquarters for the last several years.

“As far as what she does with her time,” Saul went on, “she’s been a regular bee with a slew of charities up in Connecticut. Built quite a name for herself as a fundraiser, which also has made her pretty popular with her neighbors. She patronizes the right dress designers and hairdressers. She doesn’t date all that much, but she always has an escort for social functions both up there and in the city. She comes in occasionally for the opera or a play. I’m sorry, but that’s about it,” he said, turning his palms up. “I know this isn’t much help, and I’m not proud of it. Consider this one on the house—no charge.”

“Nonsense.” Wolfe waved Saul’s comment away. “I didn’t expect to learn this much about the woman. Satisfactory.”

Wolfe’s not one to toss words around recklessly, and for him to use “satisfactory” is roughly the same as most people jumping in the air like the idiots on those television commercials for a certain brand of automobile. Saul, who’s known Wolfe almost as long as I have, is aware of this, but that didn’t improve his expression. He shook his head and got up to leave, thanking me for the coffee.

“Why the long face?” I asked as I walked him to the front hall. “You got a hell of a lot of information in just twenty-four hours.”

“Archie, I’ve done better, way better,” he said, flipping the gray cap onto his head in a smooth movement. “If he tries to pay me, stop him.’”

I smiled and said good-bye, closing the door, but made a mental note. Saul would get a check if I had to hide it in his apartment during a poker game. And if he refused to cash it, I’d tell him Wolfe would consider such an action a dishonor to him—Wolfe, that is. Saul Panzer is proud, cagey, smart, and tough, but so am I.

“Well, what do you think about our prospective client?” I said to Wolfe when I got resettled at my desk.

The answer I got was a glare. “I said I would see the woman, and I will. That does not, however, make her a prospective client, to use your term. My primary interest in Mrs. MacLaren is as a source of information about her former husband.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, smiling inside but putting on what I preferred to think of as a blank expression. Once again Wolfe was confronted with the prospect of a woman in the house, and what made it worse, she might be a source of income.

This is a good spot to say something about Nero Wolfe and women. It’s not that he dislikes them—quite the opposite. I’ve watched on more occasions than I can count when attractive specimens were in the office, and around them, he’s different. More guarded, to be sure, but also more observant. For instance, unless I’ve totally lost what Wolfe once called my “intuitive powers of observation,” I’m convinced he pays particular attention to the legs of certain females who park themselves in the red leather chair. And the legs he spends the most time watching also happen to be the best-looking ones. Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.

Once, when he was grumbling about having to see a female as part of a burglary investigation, I got fed up and complained about his aversion to members of the fairer sex. I remembered his answer and wrote it down later: “The monumental misadventures of my life, and I’m chagrined to say there have been a number, all have centered on women. I’m reconciled to having them on the planet, and sometimes in this very room when necessity dictates. However, I remain intent in minimizing my contact with them. I confess my prejudice.”

Okay, so it isn’t exactly the Gettysburg Address, but you get the idea loud and clear that Nero Wolfe is not about to convert the brownstone into a coed dormitory. I was thinking about his words on the subject that Monday afternoon at three sharp when the doorbell rang.

I can’t say whether the British newspapers would still call her one of the most beautiful women in England, but as I sized her up through the one-way glass, I was willing to volunteer as a judge, just to see who could possibly finish ahead of her. We’re talking world-class looks here. So she’s forty-one according to Saul’s research, but unless she’d sent a stand-in, I was prepared to admit that the fountain of youth had been found.

“You would be Audrey MacLaren,” I said, swinging the door open and standing aside to let her enter.

“And you would be the fabled Archie Goodwin,” she replied with a smile that lit the hall as she stepped in.

Someday I’ll learn. But what the hell, in that moment she had me. I was ready to cancel any future plans with anyone—Lily Rowan included. For the record, the woman I had just given my heart to was wearing an emerald-green rough silk number that advertised her curves without overselling them. The skin: spectacular. The hair: about the color of an Irish setter, and if she and her hairdresser shared a secret, I didn’t want to know. The eyes were blue as the heavens, and they held mine as I gestured toward the office. And yes, the legs were likely to get the attention of her host.

“This is Nero Wolfe,” I babbled unnecessarily, steering her to the red leather chair. I then turned to him and introduced Audrey.

“Madam,” he said, putting his book aside and dipping his head a quarter-inch.

“Mr. Wolfe,” she responded in a voice angels would have coveted, “I know you don’t shake hands, which is a good policy. One never knows how much they might become contaminated.”

Wolfe’s eyes opened wide. She had brought him up short, and I swallowed a “Bravo!” as I eased into the chair at my desk. But he recovered quickly.

“The handshake has been used so indiscriminately by so many for so long that it has become hopelessly trivialized, a meaningless gesture,” he instructed her. “I prefer to use words as a means of expressing thoughts and feelings.”

“I completely agree,” she said, turning on the smile and crossing her legs in a motion that was not lost on either of us. “Etiquette so often absurdly dictates that we cling to many outmoded and obsolete traditions.”

“Etiquette does not dictate to me,” he growled. “Madam, we both know that the reason for your visit was not to discuss tribal rites.”

“No,” she said, smiling again. She knew how to do it right, even if it didn’t charm Wolfe. “I have a tendency to get sidetracked, I’m afraid, and I apologize. I was heartened when I saw the article in yesterday’s
Gazette
about your insistence that Harriet Haverhill’s death was murder. As I said on the phone to Mr. Goodwin, I am prepared to hire you to find her killer.”

“You also told Mr. Goodwin that you know who that person is.”

“I do,” she answered evenly, looking at him with her beautiful eyes for a reaction. When she got none, she went on. “There’s absolutely no question—Ian is the one.”

“Indeed? What proof have you?”

“Oh, I don’t have the proof—that’s why I’ve come to you. But I am morally certain that he did it. Or he paid someone to do it. Actually, probably the latter. That would be more like him—using money to sweep aside any obstacle.”

Wolfe made a face. “Before we expend any more of each other’s time, madam, you need to be made aware of one of the tenets of this office: Mr. Goodwin and I will undertake no assignment that involves any aspect of marital strife, whether it be divorce, separation, or simply animus.”

It was Audrey’s turn to open her eyes wide. “Oh no,” she protested, shaking her head vigorously. “Marital strife, as you call it, is not the issue here. My marriage to Ian MacLaren ended years ago—really long before our divorce became official. What is important is that I probably know him better than anyone else in the world, and I know what he’s capable of.”

“Come now,” Wolfe said, shifting in his chair. “It’s apparent that you have no evidence whatever that your former husband had a role in Mrs. Haverhill’s death.”

Audrey’s smile had been replaced by a pout, causing me to hastily reassess my passion for her. “Let me tell you about Ian,” she said in a voice just above a whisper as she leaned forward in her chair. “He is obsessed with success, which for him means never standing still. It’s always more newspapers, more power, more influence. I don’t believe he’ll ever be satisfied.

“I’ll tell you why I know he killed the poor woman.” The intensity in her voice showed in her face. “Once—it was probably four years ago, maybe longer—he was talking to me about his goals. I can recall it perfectly; we were in our flat in London. We had finished dinner, and sat in the study with brandies. He started going over each of the newspapers he had swallowed up, reveling in every purchase. That wasn’t unusual, because he liked to relive his victories and I tried to be a good listener, even when I’d heard it all Lord knows how many times.

“Suddenly he started talking about having a New York paper—as you surely know, that has been a longtime goal of his. He stared at the bookcases and said, ‘Nothing is going to stop me. And no one. I’d kill first.’ Those were his words, Mr. Wolfe, exactly. I’ve never forgotten that—it was frightening.” She looked triumphantly at Wolfe.

“Bravado,” he snorted. “He was trying to impress you.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, raising her chin. “By that time in our lives, he wasn’t interested in impressing me. That night, I can assure you that I saw the face—and mind—of a murderer. It was terrifying. Not that I ever imagined anything like this would ever happen, mind you.”

Wolfe was still scowling. “You and your former husband had an acrimonious parting,” he said. “My understanding is that you haven’t spoken to each other in years.”

“You’ve been investigating me,” she chided softly, with a hint of amusement.

“I make it a point to learn what I can about prospective clients,” he replied, reaching for the buzzer under his desk. “Would you like a drink? I’m having beer.”

She shook her head and put a hand to the Irish-setter-colored hair. “You obviously don’t take me seriously,” she said, her face tightening.

Wolfe drew in air and made a production of exhaling. “On the contrary, madam, I take you most seriously,” he said. “But consider my perspective: a would-be client comes, seeking the solution of a murder. Her former husband, for whom she holds undeniably rancorous feelings, is a possible suspect. She was not at the scene, and was not even acquainted with the dead individual, so she feels no attachment or loyalty to that unfortunate person. Further, the police blindly insist upon labelling the murder a suicide. What am I to assume her motive is in hiring me?”

“What difference does my motive make?”

“Madam, it makes a great deal of difference whether you seek truth or vengeance. If uncovering the truth is your goal, you presumably will be satisfied with my work as long as I identify the murderer, whoever he is. But if you seek vengeance, you will be contented only if the scent leads me to your former husband.”

“In this case, truth and vengeance both point to the same man,” she insisted.

“I don’t accept that,” Wolfe said, shaking his head. “I am not yet prepared to name a murderer, but I have no reason to suspect Ian MacLaren above anyone else.”

“Nonsense!” Her eyes flashed with irritation. “The only reason the police aren’t calling it murder is because of Ian’s power. You can’t imagine how deep his tentacles extend—and how many strings he can pull to get his way. He’s got them buffaloed—they’re afraid of him. Press barons can do almost anything they want. Well, I don’t believe he can buffalo you, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he cautioned. “I summarily reject your outrageous notion. The New York Police Department, whatever its shortcomings, will not be cowed by anyone. And even if they were susceptible to intimidation, it would hardly be at the hands of a press baron, to use your term, who doesn’t even own a New York newspaper. He has no power base here.”

Audrey swallowed hard but held Wolfe’s gaze. “All right,” she nodded, “I’m still willing to take a chance to hire you.”

He considered her. “Take a chance? You realize, of course, that whether or not I have a client, I will pursue this investigation. Therefore, you would get the same results by saving your money and simply being a spectator.”

“I don’t want to be a spectator,” she said, raising her English voice a notch. “I want to hire you. I know enough about you to realize your fees are high. lam prepared to pay you fifty thousand dollars now, and another fifty thousand when the murderer is named, if that is acceptable. Here’s a certified check in your name for the first payment,” she said, reaching into her purse, pulling it out, and placing it on the corner of the desk.

“Very well,” Wolfe said. “I accept the commission with this proviso: that I receive the second check regardless of whom I name. However, that second payment need not be tendered until the individual is found guilty.”

“That sounds most fair,” Audrey said, rearranging that breathtaking face into a smile. “Now I have a favor to ask: would it be possible to keep our arrangement confidential? My former husband is a vindictive man. If he were to find out that I was your client, he might very well take it out on the children in some way.”

Or take it out on you by cutting down on his alimony payments, I thought as I watched her. How fleeting love is.

“I see no reason to reveal our compact. If a compelling need to do so surfaces, however, I will inform you first of the circumstances.”

Audrey realized her audience was over, and she turned to me, smiling and rising. I escorted her to the hall, once again marveling at that face as I saw it in profile. But somehow, the magic had gone, even when she looked earnestly into my eyes and said, “Mr. Archie Goodwin, thank you so much. I do hope we see each other again soon.”

As I watched her gracefully glide down our front steps in her Charles Jourdan pumps, I suppose I hoped I’d see her again soon, too. But I could wait.

When I got back to the office, Wolfe was holding the check in both hands. “Is it phony?” I asked.

“Ask our friends at Metropolitan Trust,” he muttered, thrusting it in my direction. “And she calls
him
vindictive. Bah.”

“Hey, where is it written that you have to like your client?” I asked. His answer was a shrug, which was more than I expected.