Death on Deadline (22 page)

“I appreciate that, and I promise not to prolong the evening unnecessarily. I think you will find it time well spent.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not coming,” Bishop said firmly. “As for the others, you’re of course free to ask them yourself, but—”

“Mr. Bishop, if all of you are not present here tomorrow night at nine, I will release a statement to the New York
Times
promptly on Saturday morning.”

“What kind of statement?”

“No, sir, that won’t work. The only way you will find out is to read the Sunday editions of the
Times.
Let me assure you that what I have to tell them is newsworthy.”

“You’re bluffing!”

“Bluffing? Hardly. Bear in mind that I already have spent in excess of thirty thousand dollars on that
Times
advertisement. Is that the action of a bluffer?”

That stopped him. For about fifteen seconds, although it seemed longer, all I could hear was the sound of deep breathing. “All right,” Bishop said with gravelly reluctance, “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee that I can get them to show up.”

“If they’re not all here, there will be no meeting and the statement will go to the
Times.
”

Bishop signed off by saying he’d call the others, and he agreed to get back to us no later than ten tomorrow morning. “MacLaren next?” I asked, and Wolfe nodded.

He, too, was still at his office. His lackey Carlton answered the phone and made a feeble stab at finding out what I wanted. “Just say Nero Wolfe needs to discuss an urgent matter with him,” I said brusquely. I was put on hold, and while I waited, Wolfe got on the line.

“Hello, Wolfe,” MacLaren barked. “What is it now?”

“Mr. MacLaren, at nine o’clock tomorrow night, in my office, I will be discussing the murder of Harriet Haverhill. Her stepchildren, her nephew, David’s wife, Mr. Bishop, and Mr. Dean will be in attendance. I invite you to join us.”

“I told you before that I won’t stand still for some cheap attempt to dump this at my feet,” he said, his voice rising with every syllable. “And I warn you, Wolfe, I’ll sue if you try it.”

“I should think you would want to come to protect your interests and defend your reputation,” Wolfe remarked dryly. “I guarantee that the evening will be eventful, and it may well have a marked impact on the future of the
Gazette.”

MacLaren growled. “What time did you say?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“I’m supposed to be at a dinner party.”

“You would be well advised to regret that invitation.”

“I’ll see,” MacLaren huffed, hanging up.

“That man’s got a real problem with manners, doesn’t he?” I said.

Wolfe made a face. “He’ll be here.”

“Three-to-one you’re right. What’s next?”

“Call Mrs. MacLaren and invite her.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to tweak MacLaren’s nose by surprising him with his ex-wife when he walks in. But that’s hardly your kind of stunt.”

“My client has every right to see how I am earning my fee,” he answered—somewhat stiffly, I thought. Before I could come up with a fitting response, he got up and headed to the kitchen to monitor Fritz’s progress with dinner. Or else he was just trying to get away from me. Anyway, I tried Audrey MacLaren, using our signal, but a bleary female voice said she was out for the evening, so I left a message.

That concluded the working portion of my day. Normally on Thursdays I forgo dinner at home and head for Saul’s and the weekly poker game, but it was canceled because he’d taken Wolfe’s offer to spend the night in South Carolina, so after dinner I cleaned my guns and sipped a glass of milk while Wolfe read his book and then watched a Public Television program on the history of the Jewish people.

When I slid out of bed at seven-fifteen on Friday, I was glad there hadn’t been a poker game. I’d needed my rest for what was sure to be a long day. At breakfast in the kitchen, I briefly laid out the program for Fritz, which got him all pumped up; he saw the end of a case, which also meant a fresh infusion of money.

I was at my desk a little after nine when the phone rang. It was Audrey. “Mr. Wolfe had asked me to call you,” I told her. “He’s having several people over tonight to talk about Harriet Haverhill’s death, and he knew you’d want to be here.”

“Will he name a murderer?” she said breathlessly.

“He hasn’t shared that information with me, but it’s not a bad guess.”

“I suppose Ian will be there?”

I told her he would, along with the people from the
Gazette,
but I insisted I didn’t know anything beyond that. She said she would come, and I told her to be here at eight-forty.

Next on the list of chores I’d gotten from Wolfe the night before was to call Lon Cohen. “Got a minute?” I asked when he answered.

“Yeah, but not much more. Shoot.”

“There’s going to be a get-together here tonight, maybe you’ve heard.”

“Carl told me about it when he came in. He’s not hot for the idea, but I gather he’s trying to round up the others now.”

“Satisfactory. Mr. Wolfe thinks it would be good if you came too, but keep that to yourself. You can sit in the front room while the session’s going on.”

“Wait a minute,” Lon said, alarm creeping into his voice. “Are you trying to tell me something? Like maybe that …” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m not trying to tell you anything, except that my boss issued the invitation. Attendance isn’t compulsory.”

“Hell, you know damn well I’ll be there.”

“But without telling anyone,” I stressed. “Come at eight-thirty.”

He sounded a little dazed but said to count him in.

I dialed Inspector Cramer’s number. The flunky who answered told me he was tied up indefinitely, and I insisted that it was important. He covered the receiver and I could hear muffled voices before a familiar one came on.

“Goodwin? What do
you
want?” Good old Sergeant Purley Stebbins.

“I was trying to reach your boss, at the request of my boss. He wants to invite him—and you—to a party.”

“What kind of garbage is this?” Purley isn’t one to waste words.

“Mr. Wolfe plans to talk about the murder of Harriet Haverhill. Her relatives are going to be there, along with Carl Bishop, Elliot Dean, and the great Scottish press baron himself.”

Purley hissed a word that I wouldn’t use in polite company and groaned. “One of those.” He obviously was referring to Wolfe’s round-up-the-suspects-and-name-the-murderer evenings, several of which he has attended over the years. “I’ll pass the word to the Inspector,” he said, hanging up. No one seemed to want an extended conversation with me these days. I buzzed Wolfe in the plant rooms.

“Yes?”

“Audrey is a yes,” I reported. “Lon’s coming too, and understands he has to stay in the front room. I called Cramer and got Purley, who grumbled but said he’d tell him about it. We’ll probably be getting a call from him soon. I haven’t tried Saul, because there’s no way he could have gotten back yet from the Carolinas.” Wolfe muttered something that sounded like “Very well” and banged his receiver without giving further instructions, so I went to the kitchen to review some of the details of the evening with Fritz.

The day passed slowly and without noteworthy activity, unless you count Cramer’s call, which came at eleven just after Wolfe had gotten settled in the office. I answered and stayed on the line.

“All of them are really going to be at your place tonight?” Cramer croaked.

“That is my understanding, sir. We will begin at nine.”

“And you claim you’re going to name a murderer?”

“It is not a claim—it is an assurance.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Mr. Cramer, have I ever failed to make good my promise in circumstances similar to this?”

Cramer used the same word Purley had. Limited vocabularies. “I’ll see you tonight!” he said loudly, banging his phone down so hard that Wolfe cringed.

W
OLFE PASSED THE REST OF
the morning, and the afternoon for that matter, reading, filling out order blanks in two new seed catalogs, and signing correspondence. My favorite letter was one he wrote to the editor of a magazine for orchid growers, criticizing him for the increasing number of typographical errors in his publication. “In your most recent issue,” Wolfe wrote, “ ‘paphiopedilum,’ ‘phalaenopsis,’ and—heaven forbid—‘oncidium’ each got misspelled once and ‘odontoglossum’ was misspelled twice. Far from acceptable from a periodical that purports to be a leader in its field.”

At lunch, he held forth on why a free press was so instrumental in the growth and development of the United States, which is as close as we had come that day to discussing business.

Finally at two-thirty, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and Wolfe obviously wasn’t about to volunteer a thing. “Look,” I said, turning to him, “I admit it—I’m stumped. I don’t have any idea what you’re cooking up. Don’t you think you should share your little secret? After all, I might be more helpful tonight if I know where we’re headed.”

Wolfe leaned back, his eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth twitched. Okay, I thought, enjoy yourself all you want, even gloat, but unload. He did, and when he laid it out, everything seemed obvious. But then, it usually does after it’s been spelled out.

When Wolfe went up to the plant rooms, I started preparing the office. I got interrupted by two calls, one each from newspaper and TV reporters following up on Wolfe’s murder theory and wanting to know if there were any new developments. I said no, wondering how they’d react when they saw Saturday’s late edition of the
Gazette.

I didn’t get around to finishing the office setup until after dinner, when Fritz gave me a hand. While Wolfe sat reading, oblivious of us, we rearranged the chairs and brought in some extras from the dining room, placing them with the assumption that all the invited guests would show. Fritz wheeled in the big serving cart, also from the dining room, and we set up a bar with gin, vodka, rye, bourbon, Scotch, sherry, and a carafe each of white and red wine. I had my usual argument with him, claiming that almost nobody asks for red wine except during a meal, but he held fast and even made sure a bottle of rosé was on hand too.

At eight-thirty, the doorbell rang. I got to the hall and let Lon in, and we went to the office, where he slipped into the red chair. “You’ll want to view the proceedings through the hole in the painting,” Wolfe told him. Lon nodded, and I knew he was bursting to ask what exactly he would be watching, but he knew Wolfe well enough to realize he wasn’t going to get an answer—not yet, anyway.

I should discuss the hole in the painting. On the right as you walk into the office from the hall is a colorful picture of a waterfall, with lots of greens and blues. It was made to Wolfe’s specifications years ago, and there’s a hole in it that’s almost impossible to spot. In the hall is a wooden panel with hinges. Swing it open, and you’re looking at the back of the picture. But that’s not all you’re looking at: the hole, at eye level for someone about my height, which is five-eleven, gives you a view of the entire office, and you also can hear everything that’s said. This was where Lon would watch the action.

At eight-forty-five, the bell chimed, which meant the first of our cast had arrived. Wolfe and Lon rose and headed for the kitchen, where they would wait until everyone got seated. When I asked Lon if he wanted a drink, he gave me a “No thanks, not while I’m working—try me later.”

Through the front door panel, I saw Audrey MacLaren, wearing a designer suit the color of her eyes and a nervous look on that stunning face. “Come in,” I said as she stepped across the threshold and cut loose with what she probably thought was a fetching smile. She was right. “Am I the first one here?”

“You are indeed,” I said, admiring her suit as I followed her into the office, directing her to the red leather chair, which probably was still warm from Lon.

“Where’s Mr. Wolfe?” she asked, the nervous look back in place of the smile.

“He likes to make a grand entry. You won’t see him until all the players are in place.”

“And the players are … ?”

I ran down the guest list for her—including Cramer and Stebbins—and asked if she wanted a drink. I got a shake of the head as the bell sounded again.

The newcomers were Inspector Cramer and Purley Stebbins, both of whom nodded grimly as I swung the door open. They marched into the office, and I introduced them to Audrey, who turned in her chair, nodded, and then gave them her back. Cramer and Purley, each clad in a dark blue suit about as stylish as what the Russian muckety-mucks wear, moved to the two chairs in the third row, which were spots they had occupied in similar situations.

The next time the doorbell rang, Fritz was there to help out in case there were coats. It was all four of the Haverhills. David and Carolyn had obviously been arguing out on the stoop and both of the men came in griping. “Goodwin, we’re only here because Carl told us Wolfe was threatening to go to the
Times
with some kind of stupid story,” Scott announced loudly. “That’s the only reason, believe me.” David seconded the complaint in a whiny echo, and Donna looked somber but said nothing. Carolyn looked pretty good herself in a red outfit that I guessed was a Galanos. If nothing else, the evening would set a record for the greatest number of good-looking women in the brownstone at one time.

Fritz was in agony. He always suspects women visit merely to attempt to seduce Wolfe.

As I was ushering them into the office, the bell rang again and Fritz got it, letting Bishop and Dean in, neither of whom said a word as they entered the hall. I orchestrated the seating, directing David to the chair next to Audrey in the front row and Carolyn next to him. I left the last chair up front vacant for MacLaren. Next, I motioned Scott and Donna to the two middle seats in the second row. They, like David and Carolyn, looked back at Cramer and Stebbins, but nobody said anything. They also shot a curious glance in Audrey’s direction, which was understandable, as nobody else in the room had likely ever seen her before. I started to make introductions, but figured I’d leave that for Wolfe.