Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

Wolfe shot me another glower. His index finger was tracing circles on the arm of the chair, the only outward indication that he was furious. I knew more than he did about something and was forcing him to ask questions, which made it even worse.

“Archie, I have suffered your contumacy for longer than I care to think about.” He pursed his lips. “Confound it, report!”

“Yes, sir,” I said, maintaining a somber expression. Then I unloaded everything verbatim, from Maria’s phone call to the money. When I got to the part about the three notes, I opened the safe and pulled them out, but he refused to give them a glance. During my whole report, he sat with his eyes closed, fingers interlaced on his center mound. He interrupted twice to ask questions. When I was through, he sat in silence, eyes still closed.

After about five minutes, I said, “Are you asleep, or just waiting for me to call in a portrait painter so he can capture your favorite pose?”

“Archie, shut up!” That made it two bellows in one day. I was trying to think up something smart to say that would bring on a third and set a record, but Fritz came in and announced lunch.

Wolfe has a rule, never broken, that business is not to be discussed during meals, and it had been an easy rule to keep for the last two years, since there wasn’t any business. That day, though, my mind was on other things and I barely tasted Fritz’s superb sweetbreads. Wolfe, however, consumed three helpings at his normal, unhurried pace, while holding forth on the reasons why third parties have been unsuccessful in American elections.

We finally went back to the office for coffee. During lunch, I decided I’d pushed Wolfe enough and would leave the next move to him. We sat in silence for several minutes, and I was beginning to revise my strategy when he got up and went to the bookshelf. He pulled down the big atlas, lugged it back to his desk, and opened it. He looked at a page, then turned back to the photograph, fingering it gently.

“Archie?” He drew in a bushel of air, then let it out slowly.

“Yes, sir?”

“You know Montenegro, at least superficially.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You also know — I have told you — that in my youth there, I was impetuous and headstrong, and that I sometimes showed a pronounced lack of judgment.”

“So you have said.”

“A half-century ago in Montenegro, Milos Stefanovic and I were relatively close friends, although I never shared his consuming interest in music. We fought together, along with Marko and others in the photograph, for a cause in which we strongly believed. On one occasion in Cetinje, Stefanovic saved my life. And then, for reasons that are now irrelevant, he and I parted, not without rancor. I haven’t seen him since that time, and I probably haven’t thought about him for twenty years, at least. I mention this by way of telling you that we are faced with an extraordinary circumstance.”

“Yes, sir.” Although Wolfe’s upstairs horsepower is far greater than mine, I’ve been around long enough to know when he’s rationalizing. I stifled a smile.

“I am duty-bound to see this woman.” He spread his hands in what for him is a dramatic gesture of helplessness. “I have no choice. Tell her to be here at three o’clock. Also, it’s been a long time since Mr. Cohen has joined us for dinner. Call and invite him for tonight. And tell him we will be serving that cognac he enjoys so much.”

I was delighted, of course, that Wolfe had agreed to see Maria. But his wanting Lon Cohen to come for dinner was a bonus. Lon works for the Gazette, where he has an office two doors from the publisher’s on the twentieth floor. He doesn’t have a title I’m aware of, but I can’t remember a major story in New York that he didn’t know more about than ever appeared in the Gazette, or anyplace else, for that matter. Lon and I play in the same weekly poker game, but he only comes to dinner at Wolfe’s a couple of times a year, and it’s almost always when Wolfe wants information. This is all right with Lon, because he’s gotten a fat file of exclusive stories from us through the years, not to mention some three-star meals.

As it turned out, Lon was available, although he wanted to know what was up. I told him he’d just have to wait, and that there was some Remisier to warm his tummy after dinner. He said for that he’d sell any state secrets he had lying around his office. And Maria could make it at three. “Does this mean Mr. Wolfe will take the case?” she asked over the phone breathlessly.

“Who knows?” I answered. “But at least he’ll see you, and that alone is progress.”

I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz there would be a guest for dinner. “Archie, things are happening today, I can tell. Is he going back to work?”

Fritz always fusses when Wolfe is in one of his periodic relapses. He acts like we’re on the brink of bankruptcy at all times and thinks that if Wolfe isn’t constantly performing feats of detection, there won’t be enough money to pay his salary or, more important, the food bills. Needless to say, the last two years of inactivity by Wolfe had left Fritz with a permanently long puss, and I more than once caught him in the kitchen wringing his hands, looking heavenward, and muttering things in French. “Archie, he needs to work,” Fritz would say. “He enjoys his food more then. Work sharpens his appetite.” I always replied that his appetite seemed plenty sharp to me, but he just shook his head mournfully.

This time, though, I was delighted to report that prospects were improving. “Keep your carving knives crossed,” I told him, “and say a prayer to Brillat-Savarin.”

“I’ll do more than that,” he said. “Tonight, you and Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Cohen will have a dinner to remember.” Whistling, he turned to his work, and I whistled a bit myself on the way back to the office.

Maria was ten minutes early, and she looked as frightened as she had that morning. She’d changed and was wearing a soft Angora peaches-and-cream-colored number, one of those dresses that seems equally appropriate for daytime wear or for dinner and dancing. I wanted to put my arms around her, but I sat her in the red leather chair instead, and once again arranged the three notes to Stefanovic on Wolfe’s desk blotter. Even geniuses need reference material.

Wolfe was in the kitchen with Fritz conferring on dinner: beef tournedos with sauce béarnaise, squash with sour cream and dill, celery-and-cantaloupe salad, and blueberry tart. When I told him Maria had arrived, he grimaced. The idea of having a woman in the house revolts him, and it’s all the worse if her presence means he’ll have to go to work. I went back to the office, and two minutes later he walked in, detoured around Maria, and dipped his head an eighth of an inch before sitting. That’s his version of a bow.

“Madam,” he said, “Mr. Goodwin has informed me of your earlier visit. He also told you, correctly, that I am no longer actively practicing as a private investigator. But your uncle — if indeed he is that — is an individual to whom I owe an incalculable debt. That debt alone is sufficient reason for my seeing you.

“Let me forewarn you, however,” he said, waggling a finger at her, “that this discussion is not tantamount to a contract.”

Maria nodded slowly, but she was frowning. “Mr. Wolfe, you said ‘if indeed he is that.’ Do you question that I am the niece of—”

Wolfe cut her off, but I can’t report what he said because it was in Serbo-Croatian, of which I know maybe fifteen words. He spoke what sounded like two or three sentences, and Maria responded in the same tongue. They went back and forth for about a minute. Then Wolfe nodded and turned to me. “Archie, I asked Miss Radovich several questions that only someone close to Milos Stefanovic could have answered. I am satisfied with her replies. If you want the substance of our conversation, I’ll supply it later.”