Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

The corners of Wolfe’s mouth went up slightly, deepening the folds in his cheeks. For him, that’s a smile. “I knew you would ask eventually, Archie. It’s a measure of your thoroughness.” He opened his center desk drawer, reached in, and pulled out four bottle caps, which he spread on his blotter.

I picked one up, then another. “When?” I asked.

“Fritz went out for them the afternoon you were at the bank getting Mr. Milner’s bail money.”

“Did any measure up?”

“Passable, all of them, and far superior to that unspeakable ‘Billy Beer’ you saw fit to present to me last summer. I’m pleased that Mr. Remmers was not one of the guilty. Any change would have been a step toward mediocrity, and as Isaac D’Israeli wrote, ‘It is a wretched taste to be gratified with mediocrity.’ I fervently hope my taste will never become so wretched as to be satisfied with one of these.”

With that, he dumped the bottle caps into his wastebasket and rang for beer.

The phone was out of control all that morning, with newspapers wanting quotes and TV stations begging to bring cameras and crews into the brownstone. I fielded them all, giving the papers a crumb here and there but leaving the electronics guys out in the cold. The most interesting call came just after Wolfe had come down from the plant rooms.

“Archie, we’re putting together the second-day stuff on the Stevens case, along with a sidebar piece on you and Wolfe,” Lon Cohen said. “And yeah, yeah, we’ll use those updated photos of both of you again. But what I want is a quote on whether Wolfe is getting back into the detecting business again.”

“That’s one you’ll have to ask him yourself,” I said. Cupping the mouthpiece, I spun to face Wolfe. “It’s Lon; he has a question for you, one I can’t answer.”

He pursed his lips, nodded, and picked up the receiver, while I stayed on the line. “Good morning, Mr. Cohen. What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, sir. First off, congratulations on the case. And we really appreciate the exclusive.”

“Thank you. You were a help to us as well, and as I’ve said, I like to keep our mutual-assistance relationship in balance.”

“Yes, well, I hope what I’m going to ask won’t throw it off too much. The Gazette would like to know — for attribution — if you’re going back into active practice again.”

“I’m not sure how you would define active practice,” Wolfe said.

“I’ve always viewed investigative work as an integral part of my existence. And at the present time I have no plans to terminate my existence.”

There was silence on Lon’s end. “I take it this means you’re returning to work?” he finally said.

“Mr. Cohen, I see no need to elaborate. Again, I thank you for your recent aid. I must leave for another appointment now. Good day, sir.”

Wolfe and I cradled our receivers in unison and I looked at him with what was probably a smirk, but said nothing.

“I seem to remember that you’re somewhat behind on the germination records, Archie,” he said. “I would hope that by day’s end they will be current.”

I could have given him any one of several answers, but I chose instead to go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Besides, I was about to break out laughing, and I didn’t want to do it in front of the big ham.

It all tied up nicely. As you undoubtedly know unless you were in Fiji at the time, Meyerhoff and Lucinda got life terms in a short, unspectacular trial. What you may not know if you don’t live in New York or read the Times is that Maria Radovich and Gerald Milner were married about a month later in a chapel at St. Patrick’s. Both Wolfe and I got invitations, and I went. Maria looked stunning, and Milner had tears in his eyes. David Hirsch served a few months as interim music director of the Symphony until a replacement was found, and his composition finally had its premiere, getting what the gossip columnists would call “generally favorable reviews.” Last I heard, he was living someplace in New England and I guess doing well with his composing, although I don’t keep up with that kind of thing. Both Milner and Sommers are still with the Symphony. The day after Wolfe broke the case, Remmers met with each of them and told them the Symphony valued their talents and wanted them to stay.

We heard this from Remmers when he stopped by to thank Wolfe again. He also tried one more time to write a check as a further expression of his gratitude. I was all for it, but Wolfe said no. “Mr. Remmers, I appreciate the gesture, but as I told you before, I was in effect paying a debt incurred many years ago. I am only now free of that debt.” Remmers persisted, however, and Wolfe finally came up with a solution that allowed him to leave the brownstone smiling.

Wolfe did a bit of smiling himself a few days later. A small peach-colored envelope came addressed in a sweeping script to “Nero Wolfe, Esq.” and plastered with stamps that had the Queen’s profile on them. I open Wolfe’s mail as a matter of practice, but I knew this was one piece he’d want to slit himself, so I left it intact on his blotter with the rest of the day’s delivery. I was at my desk typing when he opened the envelope, read the letter, and read it again. He finally set it down gingerly and formed his lips in a circle. I kept typing, but I could hear the air passing in and out of his mouth. It’s his version of whistling, something I had heard him do maybe five times through the years.

Fortunately, I was spared most of this performance because the front doorbell rang, and Fritz was out shopping. The guy at the door was a burly character who introduced himself as Lou. He needed a shave and had a tooth missing where it showed, but I welcomed him warmly. I told him to take his delivery down the outside front stairs to the basement, and that I’d let him in that door. After all, it was the first of fifty-two weekly calls he’d be making, and I wanted to make him feel welcome. It’s not easy pushing a hand truck with four cases of Remmers on it.