Роберт Голдсборо - Murder in E Minor

I realize that a lot was written and broadcast about the case that follows, not just in New York, but across the country. However, nobody, not even Lon Cohen’s Gazette, had the space or the knowledge to come anywhere close to giving the whole account. I didn’t think it would ever get printed anywhere, for that matter. Let me explain. Because this episode was such a personal one for Nero Wolfe, he didn’t feel I ought to write about it. And because he signs my weekly checks, I went along with him, at least for a while. Even Wolfe can be worn down by badgering, though. It took me a long time (I didn’t bring the subject up all that often), but he finally gave in, years after the fact. He didn’t give me any reasons, he just nodded, probably to shut me up. Now you know.

ARCHIE GOODWIN

November, 1977

Nero Wolfe and I have argued for years about whether the client who makes his first visit to us before or after noon is more likely to provide an interesting — and lucrative — case. Wolfe contends that the average person is incapable of making a rational decision, such as hiring him, until he or she has had a minimum of two substantial meals that day. My own feeling is that the caller with the greater potential is the one who has spent the night agonizing, finally realizes at dawn that Wolfe is the answer, and does something about it fast. I’ll leave it to you to decide, based on our past experience, which of us has it better pegged.

I’d have been more smug about the timing of Maria Radovich’s call that rainy morning if I’d thought there was even one chance in twenty that Wolfe would see her, let alone go back to work. It had been more than two years since Orrie Cather committed suicide — with Wolfe’s blessing and mine. At the time, the realization that one of his longtime standbys had murdered three people didn’t seem to bother Wolfe, but since then I had come to see that the whole business had rocked him pretty good. He would never admit it, of course, with that ego fit for his seventh of a ton, but he was still stung that someone who for years had sat at his table, drunk his liquor, and followed his orders could be a cool and deliberate killer. And even though the D.A. had reinstated both our licenses shortly after Orrie’s death, Wolfe had stuck his head in the sand and still hadn’t pulled it out. I tried needling him back to work, a tactic that had been successful in the past, but I got stonewalled, to use a word he hates.

“Archie,” he would say, looking up from his book, “as I have told you many times, one of your most commendable attributes through the years has been your ability to badger me into working. That former asset is now a liability. You may goad me if you wish, but it is futile. I will not take the bait. And desist using the word ‘retired.’ I prefer to say that I have withdrawn from practice.” And with that, he would return to his book, which currently was a rereading of Emma by Jane Austen.

It wasn’t that we did not have opportunities. One well-fixed Larchmont widow offered twenty grand for starters if Wolfe would find out who poisoned her chauffeur, and I couldn’t even get him to see her. The murder was never solved, although I leaned toward the live-in maid, who was losing out in a triangle to the gardener’s daughter. Then there was the Wall Street money man — you’d know his name right off — who said Wolfe could set his own price if only we’d investigate his son’s death. The police and the coroner had called it a suicide, but the father was convinced it was a narcotics-related murder. Wolfe politely but firmly turned the man down in a ten-minute conversation in the office, and the kid’s death went on the books as a suicide.

I couldn’t even use the money angle to stir him. On a few of our last big cases, Wolfe insisted on having the payments spread over a long period, so that a series of checks — some of them biggies — rolled in every month. That, coupled with a bunch of good investments, gave him a cash flow that was easily sufficient to operate the old brown-stone on West Thirty-fifth Street near the Hudson that has been home to me for more than half my life. And operating the brown-stone doesn’t come cheap, because Nero Wolfe has costly tastes. They include my salary as his confidential assistant, errand boy, and — until two years ago — man of action, as well as those of Theodore Horstmann, nurse to the ten thousand orchids Wolfe grows in the plant rooms up on the roof, and Fritz Brenner, on whom I would bet in a cook-off against any other chef in the universe.

I still had the standard chores, such as maintaining the orchid germination records, paying the bills, figuring the taxes, and handling Wolfe’s correspondence. But I had lots of free time now, and Wolfe didn’t object to a little free-lancing. I did occasional work for Del Bascomb, a first-rate local operative, and also teamed with Saul Panzer on a couple of jobs, including the Masters kidnapping case, which you may have read about. Wolfe went so far as to compliment me on that one, so at least I knew he still read about crime, although he refused to let me talk about it in his presence anymore.

Other than having put his brain in the deep freeze, Wolfe kept his routine pretty much the same as ever: breakfast on a tray in his room; four hours a day — 9 to 11 A.M. and 4 to 6 P.M. — in the plant rooms with Theodore; long conferences with Fritz on menus and food preparation; and the best meals in Manhattan. The rest of the time, he was in his oversized chair behind his desk in the office reading and drinking beer. And refusing to work.

Maria Radovich’s call came at nine-ten on Tuesday morning, which meant Wolfe was up with the plants. Fritz was in the kitchen working on one of Wolfe’s favorite lunches, sweetbreads in béchamel sauce and truffles. I answered at my desk, where I was balancing the checkbook.

“Nero Wolfe’s residence. Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“I need to see Mr. Wolfe — today. May I make an appointment?” It was the voice of a young woman, shaky, and with an accent that seemed familiar to me.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Wolfe isn’t consulting at the present time,” I said, repeating a line I had grown to hate.

“Please, it’s important that I see him. I think my—”

“Look, Mr. Wolfe isn’t seeing anyone, honest. I can suggest some agencies if you’re looking for a private investigator.”

“No, I want Mr. Nero Wolfe. My uncle has spoken of him, and I am sure he would want to help. My uncle knew Mr. Wolfe many years ago in Montenegro, and—”

“Where?” I barked it out.

“In Montenegro. They grew up there together. And now I am frightened about my uncle...”

Ever since it became widely known that Wolfe had retired — make that “withdrawn from practice” — would-be clients had cooked up some dandy stories to try to get him working again. I was on their side, but I knew Wolfe well enough to realize that almost nothing would bring him back to life. This was the first time, though, that anyone had been ingenious enough to come up with a Montenegro angle, and I admire ingenuity.

“I’m sorry to hear that you’re scared,” I said, “but Mr. Wolfe is pretty hard-hearted. I’ve got a reputation as a softie, though. How soon can your uncle be here? I’m Mr. Wolfe’s confidential assistant, and I’ll be glad to see him, Miss...”

“Radovich, Maria Radovich. Yes, I recognized your name. My uncle doesn’t know I am calling. He would be angry. But I will come right away, if it’s all right.”