Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

Another shrug. “Maybe somewhat strained. But to be honest, I don’t ever remember Milan talking at all about Charles to me.”

“Could that have been because you used to go out with Meyerhoff?”

“That of course is possible,” she said. “But I never once got the feeling Milan felt any bitterness toward Charles for any reason, and although I haven’t seen Charles that much recently, I never sensed any dislike for Milan on his part. But then” — she stretched out both arms palms up and did another eye-roll — “what do I know?”

“You know a great deal,” I said, “but whether I’m hearing all of it is a different matter.” When she started to protest, I held up a silencing hand and said I really had to go, but that she’d be hearing from me or Wolfe. We wrapped our arms around each other at the door, and I was the one who finally broke the clinch, or we might still be there.

It was harder getting a cab back, and it was after one when I walked into the office. Wolfe looked up from a book, his face a question mark.

“Lucinda F-M is really something,” I said, slipping into my desk chair. “Seems she had a sudden burst of recollection and had to share it with me.” I then gave him a verbatim report, leaving out only the details of our opening and closing embraces, which he wouldn’t have appreciated anyway. “Has your opinion of her changed since yesterday?” he asked after I had finished.

“I think I trust her less than I did. Maybe it’s all those damn theatrical poses she strikes,” I said. “Also, she seems to have a very selective memory. If you’re looking for odds on whether she did it, I’m still not ready to give any, though. Maybe that’s because she kisses so well.”

Wolfe grimaced and picked up the sheet with the thumbnail biographies. “They’re all still coming?”

“Yes, sir, at least as far as I know. I talked to Remmers this morning — that’s where I got the biographical stuff. Do you want to see them all at once, or should I hold them in the front room and bring them in one at a time?”

“All at once. The interaction may be instructive to watch, particularly if Mr. Meyerhoff does indeed have a quick temper. Has Saul or Fred called?”

I said they hadn’t and he nodded, then picked up his book and submerged himself while I went back to playing catch-up with the orchid records.

If nothing else could be said for that Sunday-afternoon visit, at least they arrived promptly: My watch read two minutes past four when the doorbell rang. Through the one-way panel, I didn’t have any trouble figuring out which body was attached to which name. Meyerhoff was standing in front of the others, and he didn’t look happy. He was the shortest of the three, with wavy brown hair that was retreating up his forehead and probably would disappear altogether in the next ten years. The one with horn-rimmed glasses had to be Hirsch, if for no other reason than age. He was three or four inches taller than Meyerhoff and had a scraggly mustache, and his face wasn’t filled with sunshine either. Sommers was a head taller than Hirsch, and even with his black topcoat on, I could see that he was nearly as thin as the instrument he played. He had shaggy black hair and eyebrows, and his own expression was one of worry rather than anger.

The bell rang for a second time just as I swung the door open. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, please come in,” I said in a hearty tone. “Awful day, isn’t it?” I got only grunts in reply, and my calling each by name as I helped him off with his coat didn’t seem to make an impression. “Where’s Wolfe?” Meyerhoff demanded. “I want to get this over with fast.”

I led them to the office, still playing the hearty butler role. Before I was finished with the brief introductions, Meyerhoff had attached himself to the red leather chair and thrust his chin at Wolfe as if daring him to challenge the choice of seats.

It didn’t get a rise. Wolfe acknowledged each of them with a nod, then slipped the gold strip into his book and put it down deliberately. His eyes settled on Meyerhoff, then went to Hirsch, seated next to him in a yellow chair, and finally to Sommers, who had been left with the yellow chair closest to me.

“We can give you a half-hour, no more,” Meyerhoff said loudly, looking at his wrist. “We wouldn’t have come at all, except that Jason asked us to. I can’t see any reason for this, what with—”

“A moment, please,” Wolfe said, holding up a hand. “If you’ll indulge me in a preface, Mr. Meyerhoff? Thank you. I assure you my admiration for brevity is at least equal to your own. Before we begin, would anyone care for refreshments? I’m having beer.”

Meyerhoff gave a vigorous shake of his head, which seemed to set the mood for the others. They also declined, although more graciously.

“Very well,” Wolfe said, touching his buzzer and giving them the once-over again. “As Mr. Remmers told you and as you have no doubt read in the papers, I have been hired to identify the killer of Milan Stevens. Now, I—”

“This is crazy!” Meyerhoff roared. “Everybody knows who killed Milan. The police got the right person, and they got him fast. Why can’t we just—”

“We seem to be interrupting each other, Mr. Meyerhoff,” Wolfe snapped. “If you please. You’ve all taken the trouble to brave execrable weather to get here, and I thank you for it. You moments ago expressed your desire that this meeting be brief. It can only be so if you allow me to continue. You’ll all have your turn to speak.”

“God, you’re every bit as arrogant as I’d heard,” Meyerhoff said, crossing his arms. Then he gestured to me. “Is he going to stay in here taking notes?”

“Arrogant?” Wolfe asked, lifting his shoulders a quarter of an inch and dropping them. “Perhaps, although I prefer ‘self-possessed.’ As to Mr. Goodwin, yes, he is present at all meetings in this room. And his faculties are such that if he did not take notes, he could nonetheless reconstruct verbatim a conversation of several hours’ duration. I had no idea anyone would object to his attendance. After all, each of you also is a witness to everything that will be said here.” Wolfe focused on Meyerhoff, who scowled but didn’t open his mouth.

“Now, if I may go on,” Wolfe said, pouring beer, “Mr. Milner has of course been charged with murder. He is known to have been in the Stevens apartment on Wednesday night, and is also known to have had a confrontation backstage with Mr. Stevens recently, a confrontation that centered on Mr. Milner’s relationship with Maria Radovich. These are well-documented occurrences, and I do not quarrel with them. For my own reasons, however, I believe someone other than Mr. Milner killed Milan Stevens.”

“And what might those reasons be?” It was David Hirsch, his Austrian origins showing in a slight accent. He cleared his throat and fidgeted.

“No, Mr. Hirsch,” Wolfe said, “as I stated, they are my own reasons, and I’m not prepared to share them right now.”

“This sounds like a fishing expedition to me,” Meyerhoff barked. “Your reputation for exorbitant fees is well known in this town. You’ve got a client who doesn’t want to believe the man she loves committed murder — the murder of her own uncle. Enter Nero Wolfe. She turns to you, and you accommodate by calling in anyone who ever had words with Milan. Oh, don’t think we don’t know why we’re all here; we talked about it on the way over. Each of us has at one time or another gone at it with him — and me more than anybody, it’s true. But we’re not alone; there are others in the orchestra who’ve fought with him or have some reason to resent him. I’ll be glad to supply you with names — then you can spend the next month questioning them, too.” Meyerhoff, who’d been leaning forward during his little speech, slouched back into the chair and folded his arms again.