Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

“This picture was taken up in the mountains,” Maria said. “Uncle Milos only showed it to me to point out Mr. Wolfe, but he wouldn’t talk any more about the other men or what they were doing.”

“Not going to a picnic,” I said. “I’d like to hang onto this for a while. Now, what about you, Miss Radovich? How does it happen you’re living with a great-uncle?”

She told me about how her mother, a widow, had died when she was a child in Yugoslavia, and that Stefanovic, her mother’s uncle, had legally adopted her. Divorced and without children, he was happy to have the companionship of a nine-year-old. Maria said he gave her all the love of a parent, albeit a strict one, taking her with him as he moved around Europe to increasingly better and more prestigious conducting jobs. At some time before moving to England, he had changed his name to Stevens — she couldn’t remember exactly when. It was while they were living in London that he was picked as the new conductor, or music director if you prefer, of the New York Symphony. Maria, who by that time was twenty-three, made the move with him, and she was now a dancer with a small troupe in New York.

“Mr. Goodwin,” she said, leaning forward and tensing again, “my uncle has worked hard all his life to get the kind of position and recognition he has today. Now somebody is trying to take it away from him.” Her hand gripped my forearm.

“Why not just go to the police?” I asked with a shrug.

“I suggested that to Uncle Milos, and he became very angry. He said it would leak out to the newspapers and cause a scandal at the Symphony, that the publicity would be harmful to him and the orchestra. He says these notes are from a crazy person, or maybe someone playing a prank. I was with him when he opened the first one, or I might not know about any of this. He read it and said something that means ‘stupid’ in Serbo-Croatian, then crumpled the note and threw it in the wastebasket. But he hardly spoke the rest of the evening.

“I waited until he left the room to get the note from the basket. It was then that I said we should call the police. He became upset and said it was probably a prankster, or maybe a season-ticket holder who didn’t like the music the orchestra had been playing.”

“How long until the next note?” I asked.

“I started watching the mail after that. Six days later, we got another envelope printed just like the first one. I didn’t open it — I never open my uncle’s mail. But again I found the crumpled note in the wastebasket next to his desk in the library. This time I didn’t mention it to him, and he said nothing about it to me, but again he seemed distressed.

“The third note came yesterday, six days after the second, and again I found it in the wastebasket. Uncle Milos doesn’t know that I’ve seen the last two notes, or that I’ve saved all three.”

“Miss Radovich, does your uncle have any enemies you know of, anyone who would gain by his leaving the Symphony?”

“The music director of a large orchestra always has his detractors.” She took a deep breath. “There are always people who think it can be done better. Some are jealous, others just take pleasure in scoffing at talented people. My uncle does not discuss his work very much at home, but I do know, from him and from others, that he has opposition even within the orchestra. But notes like this, I can’t believe—”

“Someone is writing them, Miss Radovich. I’d like to hear more about your uncle’s opposition, but Mr. Wolfe will be down in just a few minutes, and it’s best if you’re not here when he comes in. He may get interested in your problem, but you’ll have to let me be the one to try getting him interested.”

For the third time, Maria dove into her bag. She fished out a wad of bills and thrust it at me. “There’s five hundred dollars here,” she said. “That is just for agreeing to try to find out who’s writing the notes. I can pay another forty-five hundred dollars if you discover the person and get him to stop.” Five grand was a long way below what Wolfe usually got as a fee, but I figured that for Maria Radovich, it was probably big bucks. I started to return the money, then I drew back and smiled.

“Fair enough,” I said. “If I can get Nero Wolfe to move, we keep this. Otherwise, it goes back to you. Now we’ve got to get you out of here. You’ll be hearing from me soon — one way or the other.” I wrote her a receipt for the money, keeping a carbon, and hustled her out to the hall and on with her coat.

My watch said ten fifty-eight as she went down the steps to the street. I rushed back to the office, put the money and receipt in the safe, and arranged Wolfe’s morning mail in a pile on his blotter. Included in the stack was one item the carrier hadn’t delivered: a faded fifty-year-old photograph.

I just had time to get my paper in the typewriter and start on yesterday’s dictation when I heard the elevator coming down from the plant rooms. “Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?” he asked as he walked across to his desk, arranged a raceme of purple Cattleyas in the vase, then settled his bulk into the only chair he likes and rang for beer.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, looking up. Despite his size, and we’re talking about a seventh of a ton here, I’ve never gotten used to how efficient Wolfe is when he moves. Somehow, you keep thinking he’s going to trip or do something clumsy when he goes around behind his desk, but he never does. Everything is smooth, even graceful — if you can use that word with someone so large. Then there are his clothes. Fat people get a rap for being sloppy, but not Nero Wolfe. Today, as usual, he was wearing a three-piece suit, this one a tan tweed, with a fresh yellow shirt and a brown silk tie with narrow yellow stripes. His wavy hair, still brown but with a healthy dose of gray mixed in, was carefully brushed. He’d never admit it to me or anybody else, but Nero Wolfe spent his share of time in front of the mirror every morning, and that included shaving with a straight razor, something I quit trying years ago when I got tired of the sight of my own blood.

I kept sneaking glances at Wolfe while he riffled through the stack of mail. The photograph was about halfway down, but he took his time getting there, stopping as I knew he would to peruse a seed catalog. I typed on.

“Archie!” It was a high-grade bellow, the first one he’d uncorked in months.

I looked up, feigning surprise.

“Where did this come from?” he asked, jabbing at the picture.

“What’s that, sir?” I raised one eyebrow, which always gets him because he can’t do it.

“You know very well. How did this get here? What envelope was it in?”

“Oh, that. Well, let me think... yes, of course, I almost forgot. It was brought by a young woman, nice-looking, too. She thought you might be interested in helping her with a problem.”

Wolfe glowered, then leaned forward and studied the photograph. “They must all be dead by now... Two were killed by firing squads, one died in a foolhardy duel, another drowned in the Adriatic. And Marko...”

“They’re not all dead,” I put in. “You aren’t, not legally anyway, although you’ve been putting on a good imitation for a couple of years. And there’s at least one other living man in that picture.”

Wolfe went back to the photograph, this time for more than a minute. “Stefanovic.” He pronounced it far differently than I would have. “I have no knowledge of his death.”

“You win a case of salt-water taffy,” I said. “Not only is he still breathing, but he lives right here in New York. And what’s more, he’s famous. Of course he’s changed his name since you knew him.”