Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

Wolfe was sitting behind his desk in a pout when I walked back into the office. “Jovial group, eh?” I said. “It looks like all we accomplished was eliminating Sommers, and even that isn’t for sure. It’s simple enough to find ticket stubs and friends who’ll lie for you.”

“Bah,” Wolfe said, glowering at the clock. He put his hands on the chair arms and made the supreme effort to get himself erect, then headed for the kitchen, undoubtedly to monitor Fritz’s progress on dinner.

My clock radio woke me Monday morning with the news that it was still snowing and that the seven inches that had fallen in the last twenty-four hours were a record for the date. To hell with records. When I went down for breakfast, Fritz started asking about the case again, and I told him that as far as I could see we were nowhere. “But wipe that long look off your face,” I said. “At least there still is a case.”

Fritz went right on looking glum anyway, and for that matter, I was a little on the glum side myself. After the three music men had left yesterday, Saul and Fred both called in, and neither had anything to report. “Archie, I’ve talked to more streetwalkers today than most traveling salesmen meet in a lifetime,” Saul moaned, “and that includes a fair share of redheads. But nothing. Even after I convinced them I wasn’t a cop, most of them said they never work that far north. Not enough action. I gotta go now — it’s almost dark, and like werewolves, they come out at night, in case you didn’t know.”

I told him that’s what I’d heard and gave him a keep-at-it pep talk that really wasn’t necessary. I fed the same pep talk to Fred when he checked in half an hour later, only with him, it was needed. He had two reasons for his dark mood: one, he hadn’t had any more luck than Saul, and two, his wife, Fanny, wasn’t exactly doing handstands over the assignment. But he signed off by saying he was headed back into the streets. “Intrepid fellow,” I said, hanging up.

If Wolfe was disturbed by their lack of success, he didn’t show it, preferring to concentrate on the Times Sunday crossword. After dinner when we were back in the office with coffee, he finished the puzzle, tossed it aside with disdain as he did every week, and looked at the clock, which read eight-fifty-five. “What time is it in London?” he asked.

“Let’s see, they’re six — no, make that five hours ahead of us,” I answered.

“Far too late to call Mr. Hitchcock,” he said. “All right, we’ll telephone him tomorrow after lunch.” He picked up a book and began reading. I decided not to give him the satisfaction of asking why he wanted Hitchcock. Geoffrey Hitchcock is a private investigator in London whom we’ve used on a number of cases; we’ve also been able to help him a few times ourselves, which keeps things pretty well in balance. In fact, just a few months before, Hitchcock had called about an American con man who’d shifted to London and was bilking widows and divorcees. Using the Gazette clips and the recollections of one of Lon’s best police reporters, I was able to give him a good rundown on the guy’s methods, for which he was grateful. And Wolfe got a letter from him a few weeks later saying that in large part because of our help, the con man was in jail and Hitchcock collected a fat fee from an angry victim.

As soon as Wolfe got settled at his desk Monday morning following his plant-room playtime, I swiveled to face him. “Big Ben is at this very moment chiming four o’clock,” I said.

He breathed deeply and scowled. “I haven’t even seen the mail yet, but I suppose you’ll hector me until we make the call. Confound it, yes, go ahead and get him.”

Hitchcock’s number was on a file card in front of me, and with the grace of New York Telephone, I had no trouble getting through. He answered on the second ring, and I nodded to Wolfe, who picked up his instrument while I stayed on the line.

“Mr. Hitchcock? This is Nero Wolfe. How are you, sir?... Yes, I’m in good health also, thank you. When we spoke a few months ago, I said we might ask your help again someday, and that day has come. Yes, it’s a case — the murder of Milan Stevens.”

Hitchcock said the London papers were filled with stories on it, and he already knew about Milner’s being charged. He started asking questions, but Wolfe cut him off. “Mr. Hitchcock, I can’t at this time tell you very much because I don’t know a great deal myself, although Mr. Goodwin and I are certain that the killer has not yet been found. What I need from you is information on Stevens’s activities in Europe before he came to America. He was a conductor in a number of places — London, of course, Milan, Munich, and...” He turned to me.

“Vienna,” I added, and he repeated it to Hitchcock.

“My question is this: Was there an occurrence in one of these cities that could have resulted in an intense enmity toward him? I’m interested in anything you find, however trivial the incident might seem.”

Hitchcock said he could check easily enough in London himself, and that he’d call a colleague in Frankfurt to find out about Stevens’s years in the two Germanic cities. “I know a man in Italy who may be able to help there,” he added. “I suppose you’re in a hurry for this?” Wolfe said yes and Hitchcock promised to get back to us within a day. Having thus indulged me by conducting business — all of two minutes’ worth — Wolfe submerged himself in reviewing the mail and filling out the order blanks from two new seed catalogs.

That afternoon, Stevens’s memorial service was held at three. I thought about going, but decided I would be of more value at home in case Saul, Fred, or Hitchcock called in while Wolfe was up with the plants. None of them did, though, and about four-thirty the cabin fever was so bad that I told Fritz to cover the phone while I went for a walk. The air was cold and clear, ideal for sorting things out, I said to myself. But as I started east on Thirty-fifth Street, I couldn’t find anything to sort. We were noplace, and I began to think maybe Wolfe had spent too long on the shelf, like an outfielder who holds out until May and doesn’t get his batting eye back before August. Both the Saul-Fred project and the Hitchcock thing seemed like the long shots of a gambler who was way behind and trying to catch up fast. I was still muttering when I got back to the brownstone at five-thirty after having walked a good four miles. “Only one call while you were gone,” Fritz said as I hung my coat up. “Miss Adjari, a little while ago. I told her Mr. Wolfe was with the plants, and she said not to disturb him, but to tell him that the services for Mr. Stevens were very nice and that she is going back to London on a plane this evening.”

“Not wasting any time, is she?” I snapped, and Fritz said something about only being a message-taker. When Wolfe came down at six and settled in behind his desk, I told him about the call. The reaction was a shrug and a request to turn down the thermostat. “A damn good idea!” I said, standing up. “A little less heat might stimulate some mental activity around here — God knows we could use it. Maybe if I open a couple of windows too, we’ll—”

“Archie, shut up. You’re prattling. What would you have me do? Buy advertising time on television? Or erect a billboard on Times Square? Like good fishermen, we have put out our lines. And also like good fishermen, we need to exercise some patience.”

“What do you know about fishing?” I snarled as I turned the heat down. “You haven’t dropped a hook in the water since the invention of the reel.” There was more to our conversation, but that’s enough to give you the flavor, and also an indication of why there wasn’t much talking at the dinner table, despite Wolfe’s attempts to start a discussion on what New York would be like today if the Dutch hadn’t got muscled out by the English a few centuries back. It was also quiet in the office after dinner, and when the phone rang, I almost knocked over my coffee cup reaching for the receiver.