Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

“Let me understand this,” he said for about the fourth time. “You’re telling me that the Radovich woman came to you because Stevens had known Wolfe years ago in Europe?”

“That’s what I’m telling you, Lieutenant. That’s what she told me.”

“And that you have three notes in your safe at home that threatened Stevens’s life, notes that you didn’t see fit to turn over to the police at the time?”

“That’s what I’ve said.”

“And that Miss Radovich hired you to find out who wrote those notes? What a fine job you great masterminds did on this. You realize, Goodwin, that if you’d come to us with this, Milan Stevens would be alive?”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and admired the peeling paint on the ceiling. “Lieutenant, it’s brought back memories, chatting with you tonight, but I get the feeling that you’re running out of questions. Can’t we get a stenographer in here so I can make a statement?”

“Dammit, Goodwin, I’ll decide when to call the steno!” Rowcliff screamed. “I could have you locked up as an accessory.”

He couldn’t, and we both knew it, but he needed to let off steam, and I needed a pillow and mattress. I could tell I was tired when Rowcliff started stuttering and it didn’t even matter to me. I assumed that by this time Milner had been found and was somewhere in the building, and I was surprised that Rowcliff hadn’t abandoned me to work on him.

Finally, around two-fifteen, he decided I was no longer worth the effort, and a steno came in for my statement. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way home in a patrol car with a sergeant named Foley who didn’t like Rowcliff any more than I did, and who had let me hitch a ride north with him. It was three o’clock when I fell into bed and set the alarm for four hours later.

No matter how often I see Wolfe propped up in bed, I’m never quite prepared for the sight. Maybe it’s his bright yellow pajamas, or the silk coverlet, or the uncertainty as to where he ends and the bed begins, but in that setting he always looks larger than usual, which is saying a lot. I got to his room just after eight, right behind Fritz and his tray with orange juice, hot chocolate, peaches with cream, link sausage, shirred eggs, and whole-wheat toast with currant jam. My alarm clock had kicked me out of bed at seven, and after a shave and shower, I went down to the kitchen for a quick breakfast of my own so I could fill Wolfe in before his morning visit to the plants. He forbids business talk in the dining room, but on rare occasions tolerates it with his breakfast.

“Last night was every bit as delightful as I thought it would be,” I said as he started in on the peaches. “Who do you suppose was on duty at Twenty-first Street when I got there?”

“Not Lieutenant Rowcliff?” Wolfe made a face, as he always does when he pronounces the name. He’s never forgiven Rowcliff for the time years ago when he searched the brownstone.

“You got it. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, but then, I’m getting ahead of myself. I assume you want it all?”

Wolfe nodded. That meant a verbatim report on the evening, which was no strain. On past occasions, I’ve repeated hours of word-for-word dialogue to him, and I’d match myself against a tape recorder.

I started with the call to Maria at the dance studio and covered all the rest, right through to Rowcliff’s final rantings and my ride home. Wolfe interrupted three or four times with questions, but otherwise concentrated on his tray. As I finished, he drained the last of his chocolate and scowled. “I suppose the police have Mr. Milner by now. What do the papers say?” He gestured to the copies of the Times and Daily News that Fritz had brought up. I’d read my own copies already.

“There’s nothing about Stevens in these editions,” I said. “They probably got the story too late. But the afternoons figure to play it big, and you can be sure Lon will be calling soon. Ditto the reporters for the other papers and the TV stations. And I’ve got a sawbuck that says Cramer punches our doorbell before noon.”

“Your money is safe,” Wolfe said. “If Mr. Milner is the murderer, Mr. Cramer’s army of men will likely have no trouble establishing it. If that’s the case, we’ll owe Miss Radovich a refund, along with our condolences. Let us for the moment turn our back on the obvious, however. What is your judgment of her?”

“You mean, could she have done it? Absolutely not. Two hundred to one against, at least. She doted on the old man, and besides, she apparently was at the dance studio all afternoon and evening. But that’s one that can be checked easily enough.”

“Very well,” Wolfe said. “I concur that we will almost surely hear from both Mr. Cohen and Mr. Cramer this morning, one with questions, the other with harangues.” He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Is that it?” I asked after a half-minute of silence. “Someone you’ve known for years was killed last night, not more than four miles from here, and I get the feeling that I’m keeping you awake. I’m impressed with the way you’re able to conceal your fury.”

He looked at me with wide eyes. “Archie, outrage is among your more churlish emotions. If I may contradict you, Mr. Stevens is someone I have not known for years. Further — and I realize this is troubling you — I reject summarily any suggestion that Mr. Stevens’s death could have been prevented by our turning those notes over to the police. As you’ve heard me say before, if one person is determined to kill another, it is virtually impossible to prevent the act, short of destroying the potential murderer himself. And whoever dispatched Milan Stevens had in all likelihood made his or her decision long before last night.”

Wolfe then opened the Times, which signaled the end of the discussion. For the second time in two days, I wanted to slam a door behind me, but decided it was wasted energy. I walked down one flight to the office and found my desk covered with messages that Fritz had taken. One was from Lon, of course, and others from the Times, Daily News, Post, and three television stations. I dialed a number, and Lon answered on the first ring.

“All right, Archie, this one’s really got us spinning. What gives with Wolfe and Stevens? Naturally, we haven’t told the police about your wanting those clips, but I suppose I could always call Cramer and...”

“Threats will get you nowhere with a tough gumshoe,” I said. “Besides, you could no more snitch on a friend than you could quit the paper for a job in TV. What’ve you heard about the Stevens thing?”

“What have I heard? Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? Nero Wolfe invites me to dinner, ostensibly for a social evening, although I know better. I get pumped about the Symphony in general and Milan Stevens in particular. Then you come to the paper to see our files on the man and the orchestra, and within twelve hours he’s killed. And for frosting, I have to read in the final edition of this morning’s Daily News that Stevens had known Nero Wolfe a million years ago in Yugoslavia, and that Stevens’s niece had come to you for help regarding some threatening letters he got. And then” — Lon paused for breath — “our leader storms into my office waving the News story and screaming ‘I thought you were supposed to be the one who’s in thick with Wolfe and that sidekick of his, what’s-his-name!’”

“You’re making up the ‘what’s-his-name’ part,” I said, trying to sound offended. “I haven’t seen the News article yet; it wasn’t in the edition we got delivered. But if they quoted Wolfe or me, they made it up.” I pawed through the phone messages on my desk. “Let’s see, the News did call here, at six-fifty this morning, and Fritz answered, but I haven’t returned their call. You’re the only member of the fourth estate that I’ve talked to.”