Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

“Mr. Hirsch,” Wolfe continued, “can you imagine why anyone would concoct such a story?”

“No, I don’t think I have enemies within the orchestra, other than...”

“Yes?”

“Other than Milan,” Hirsch said, slumping in his chair.

“You considered Mr. Stevens an enemy?” Wolfe asked.

“No, but I think he considered me one,” he said.

Wolfe eyed Hirsch. “Were you planning to resign?”

“I had... considered it at one time, but recently Charlie — Mr. Meyerhoff — had said there might be a change in music directors before too long.”

Wolfe turned to Meyerhoff. The managing director leaned forward on his elbows again. “That’s true. Jason had always been Stevens’s big defender, and the board pretty well went along with whatever Jason wanted. I’ve been telling him for over a year how bad the orchestra’s morale is, and recently he seemed to be coming around to my view, although he was giving up very hard.”

“I gather that if Milan Stevens were to have been fired, it would have been a major setback for Mr. Remmers,” Wolfe said.

“Yes, I think that’s a fair statement,” Meyerhoff said. “He had made a lot out of our getting Stevens originally, and it hadn’t improved things at all — in fact, just the opposite.”

“Did Mr. Stevens resent you?” Wolfe asked Meyerhoff.

“I’m sure he did — he resented anybody who tried to tell him what to do in any way at all.”

“And did you in turn resent him?”

Meyerhoff shrugged. “I guess you might say I resented what he was doing to the orchestra, his inability to pull it together, his refusal to show them any warmth or understanding.”

Wolfe drained his second beer and set down the glass. “Lucinda Forrester-Moore had been a frequent companion of Mr. Stevens’s recently. Is it true that you and she once spent a lot of time together?”

Meyerhoff smiled for the first time since he’d set foot in the brown-stone. “Oh, we’d gone to a number of plays and parties and dinners together — just a thing of convenience,” he said gently. “It was never what you’d term a serious relationship.”

Wolfe nodded and shifted his attention. “Mr. Sommers, I hadn’t meant to omit you from this discussion. Will you share your feelings on your late music director?”

Sommers uncrossed and recrossed his long legs. “They’re pretty much like David’s and Mr. Meyerhoff’s,” he said in a high-pitched voice that seemed somehow to go with his build. “He was certainly anything but a warm man, at least in his dealings within the orchestra. As David said, rehearsals were grim affairs, and he often singled out musicians who he felt weren’t doing as well as they should.

“I don’t want to come on like I’m paranoid,” Sommers said, “but I’m sure Mr. Stevens wanted to be rid of me. I could tell by the way he acted whenever we discussed anything one-on-one, such as a solo I was going to do. He always seemed terribly impatient with me. And then there was that newspaper article...”

“Yes?” Wolfe asked.

“A few weeks ago in a Sunday interview, Mr. Stevens said that several soloists were more interested in their own careers than in the good of the orchestra. That article ran just two weeks after one of my solos, and I’m sure he meant me specifically. Again, that sounds paranoid, doesn’t it? Well, I do think he was out for me.”

“Are you more interested in your career than in the orchestra as a whole?” Wolfe asked.

“I love the Symphony,” Sommers said. “It’d always been my goal to play here, even when I was growing up in Boston. I would never have done anything that ran against the orchestra’s best interests, and I always thought of myself as a team player.”

“Would you have left the Symphony if you felt Mr. Stevens was holding you back?” Wolfe asked.

Sommers looked at both Meyerhoff and Hirsch before talking. “I haven’t told anyone this, but now I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’d thought a lot lately about leaving. Chicago was interested and so was Boston, and I had some initial talks with people in both places.”

Meyerhoff looked stunned. “Don, why didn’t you come in and at least talk to me first?”

“I know, I know, I should have,” Sommers squeaked, holding up a hand. “But I had to sort this out myself. I didn’t want to leave, but...”

“You see?” Meyerhoff said, bounding from his chair and leaning on Wolfe’s desk with one arm. “You see now what that man was doing to our orchestra? Here’s the finest flutist anywhere, a man who loves the Symphony, and he was being driven away.”

“Please sit down, sir,” Wolfe said peevishly. “Your point is made, and I prefer having people at eye level.” Meyerhoff shook his head and sat down. “Thank God you’ll be staying with us now, Don,” he said. Sommers nodded and smiled weakly.

“Well, Mr. Sommers, it seems that congratulations are in order,” Wolfe said, turning back to the flutist. “You’ve decided that without Milan Stevens, the New York Symphony is a better place to work, is that true? Is that a fair statement?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sommers croaked.

“But it seems apparent. Do you deny it?”

Sommers looked down and then back up at Wolfe. “No, but I had nothing to do with his... death.”

“You’ll have a chance to prove that,” Wolfe said dryly. “We’ve already gone well over your half-hour, Mr. Meyerhoff,” he continued, looking at the wall clock. “Because this is a murder investigation, two basic questions need of course to be asked of each of you: One, did you kill Milan Stevens, and two, where were you Wednesday evening between seven and nine o’clock? Would you like to start, Mr. Meyerhoff?”

“Of course I didn’t kill him — we all know who did, although I would never have guessed Milner had it in him. As to where I was — not that it really matters — I had a lot of desk work to grind through, so after supper I went back to my office in Symphony Hall and worked until, oh, it must have been close to ten.”

“Was anyone there with you?”

“No, I was alone. There’s a night watchman, but I didn’t see him in the lobby when I left. He must have been somewhere else in the building.”

Wolfe turned to Hirsch.

“Did I kill Milan? Definitely not,” he said curtly. “And on Wednesday night, my wife was out playing bridge. I stayed home reading and listening to music. And to answer your other question, yes, I was alone from about seven until, well, it was ten-thirty or so when she got home. But I can assure you I was there the whole time. We live in New Jersey — Ridgewood — and I took a commuter train that got me there just after six.”

Wolfe turned to Sommers, who swallowed hard and uncrossed his legs again. “A classmate from Juilliard was in town from Denver,” he said, “and we went to the theater that night. I think I may still have the stub at home if you want to see it.”

Wolfe shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary, but I’d advise you to keep it. Is your friend still in New York?”

“He’s gone back to Denver, but I can give you his name and phone number if you want to—”

“Don, this is ridiculous!” Meyerhoff snapped. “This man isn’t a policeman, you don’t have to explain anything to him. Let’s get going — we’ve given him too much time already.” Meyerhoff was on his feet, and the other two looked uncertainly at Wolfe, who made no move to stop them. They tramped to the front hall, with me at their heels. Meyerhoff already had his coat on, but I was quick enough to help Hirsch and Sommers with theirs. I said good-bye, but only Sommers replied; the others were already on their way out and obviously not in the mood for parting pleasantries.