Murder in E Minor

12

I finally did get through breakfast and the Times, but didn’t have much time for general housekeeping chores in the office before Wolfe came down. By eleven-oh-one, though, when I heard the sound of the elevator, I had managed to dust, empty wastebaskets, and make a little progress on the germination records.

“We had a visitor after I talked to you on the house phone,” I told Wolfe when he was settled in the chair that I had occupied an hour earlier. His face asked the question. “Inspector Cramer popped in to wish us a pleasant day,” I went on. “Actually, he wasn’t as interested in our having a nice day as he was that we quit the case. Seems the drive to get this one cleaned up fast is coming from all quarters, including the governor’s office. If you want it verbatim, I can just about work it in before Remmers arrives,” I said, looking at my watch.

“No, just the essentials,” Wolfe said, riffling through the stack of mail I’d put on his blotter. I fed it to him fast, including Cramer’s hint that he’d saved our licenses in the Cather mess. There was nothing in the mail to hold his interest, so Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes during my recitation, grimacing occasionally at a comment of Cramer’s.

“Pfui,” he said when I was finished. “Mr. Cramer obviously came here at the insistence of others, probably the commissioner or the district attorney. It wasn’t a fishing expedition, since the inspector didn’t seem interested in any other suspects we might have. They’re putting all their chips on Mr. Milner, to use one of your phrases. And they don’t want—” The doorbell rang.

“He’s sure prompt,” I said, nodding toward the wall clock, which read eleven-fifteen. “By the way,” I added, clearing my throat, “you should know that I didn’t call Remmers — he called us. He wanted to see you.”

“Indeed. Bring him in.”

Standing on the stoop, Jason Remmers looked just like his pictures on the society pages — tall, at least six-three, lean, long-faced, and very, very distinguished. “Mr. Remmers,” I said, opening the door, “I’m Archie Goodwin. Please come in.”

“Thank you,” he said, offering a large hand with a strong grip. I took his homburg and black cashmere overcoat in the front hall and ushered him into the office. “Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Remmers,” I said. Wolfe stayed seated, nodding his head, and Remmers, apparently aware of his host’s aversion to handshakes, didn’t offer a paw. “It’s a privilege to meet you, Mr. Wolfe,” he said in his baritone. “I’ve read and heard so much about you and this office. I never thought I’d get here, and I only wish the circumstances were more pleasant,” he said, settling into the red leather chair.

“Unfortunately,” Wolfe said, “most of the people who come here do so because of less-than-happy circumstances. I understand that you had wanted to see me?”

Remmers crossed one long leg over the other and fingered a cuff of his six-hundred-dollar custom-made gray pinstripe. “Yes, as I told Mr. Goodwin on the telephone, I’ve learned from the papers that you’re interested in Milan Stevens’s murder. Also, my friend Mr. Bristol, the police commissioner, told me last night that you posted the bond for Gerald Milner.”

“That’s not technically correct,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Milner’s bond was posted by an attorney named Nathaniel Parker.”

Remmers nodded and smiled. “All right; I’ve heard about your fondness for precise speech. In any event, Mr. Bristol led me to believe that you were instrumental in getting Milner released.”

“That’s only conjecture on the commissioner’s part,” Wolfe said. “Assuming it to be true, however, why are you here? Did Mr. Bristol ask you to come and dissuade us from further investigation?”

Remmers’s face showed surprise. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, he did. But that’s not why I came. I’m chairman of the Symphony, and as you might imagine, these last two days have been sad and traumatic for everyone connected with the orchestra. They have been particularly so for me, as I was the one most responsible for Mr. Stevens coming to the Symphony.”

Remmers paused and looked at Wolfe, who nodded slightly. “Anyway, despite the police feeling that they’ve found the murderer, I’m not convinced — and I told Dick Bristol as much. Perhaps Mr. Milner is the guilty one, although that would surprise me greatly. I’d feel much more comfortable if you, as well as the police, arrived at that conclusion.” Remmers leaned forward in the chair. “Mr. Wolfe, all this is a long-winded way of saying I want to hire you to investigate the murder, regardless of how the commissioner feels about it. I know your fees are high, but I’m prepared to entertain any reasonable amount. I, not the Symphony, would be paying you.”

“Mr. Remmers, as you would learn if you were to read the edition of the Gazette that will soon be on the streets, I already have a client in this case, Maria Radovich.”

“Yes, Bristol seemed to be aware of that when I talked to him last night. But I’m sure I can pay a higher fee than she; or, if you prefer, perhaps an arrangement can be worked out for us to become co-clients.”

Wolfe shook his head. “No, sir, that wouldn’t work, and you know it. In the first place, your interests and Miss Radovich’s may not totally coincide. Second, in the course of my investigation, I may uncover information detrimental either to you or to the orchestra.”

“Such as?” Remmers said with a slight smile.

“It may be that you are the murderer,” Wolfe said.

Remmers didn’t blink. “If I were, I would hardly be trying to hire the most astute detective in New York, would I?”

“There’s precedent for such a move,” Wolfe answered. “Some years ago, a man engaged Mr. Goodwin and me to find out who killed an employee of the firm of which he was an officer. I found the murderer — it was our client.”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I recall the case. In any event, I’m sure I’m not as clever as that murderer probably was, but I guess I see your point. And the important thing to me is that you are working on the murder. I can promise you full cooperation from the Symphony, at least as far as my authority extends.”

Wolfe nodded. “Now we come to the reason why I had also wanted to see you, sir. I was going to request just such cooperation. For starters, you said you weren’t convinced of Mr. Milner’s guilt. Why?”

Remmers considered the question. “I admit I don’t know Gerald Milner awfully well — he’s only been with the Symphony a couple of years or so. But I’ve talked to him on occasion at receptions and such — I try to make it a point to meet everyone in the orchestra — and it’s difficult for me to picture him being even the least bit scheming, let alone violent. The orchestra is made up of a great many disparate personalities, as you can appreciate, and his is among the mildest — perhaps ‘meekest’ is a better word — of them all.”

“The meek and mild have wreaked a great deal of destruction through the ages,” Wolfe said.

“Certainly, and it may indeed be that Milner is one of those,” Remmers conceded. “But I simply don’t believe it.”

“Do you have someone else to suggest?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it. There were a number of people who found it, well... difficult to get along with Milan Stevens. He was rigid and unbending, as you probably have heard, and a lot of people who had to work with him were put off by his attitude and personality.”

“Including you?”

“I guess I was a special case. I brought him here from London two years ago — two-and-a-half, actually — and he felt a debt to me because of that. Besides, as chairman I don’t get very involved in the day-to-day operations of the orchestra, so Stevens and I didn’t really have occasion to clash.”

“But he collided with others at a high level?”

Remmers smiled ruefully. “Yes, indeed. For instance, he and Charles Meyerhoff, the managing director, were openly hostile to each other. Charlie felt the orchestra’s morale was even worse than it had been under the previous conductor, and that the choice of repertoire made us seem like a glorified Boston Pops.”

Wolfe looked puzzled, and Remmers picked up on it. “That is, under Stevens, the Symphony was playing music that appealed to the greatest numbers, rather than music that was necessarily of the highest caliber, or music that was more adventuresome.”

“Was this true?”

“That’s a subjective judgment,” Remmers answered, “although there’s no question that the Symphony programs the last two seasons have run more heavily toward Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Brahms, and so forth, the popular composers.”

“Did you agree with Mr. Meyerhoffs position on the orchestra’s morale?” Wolfe asked.

“Not at first,” Remmers said. “Charlie tends to be a griper by nature — never satisfied, never happy. So when he initially came to me complaining about Stevens’s Prussian approach, I shrugged it off as just another example of his pessimistic outlook. Besides, one of the big reasons we brought Milan in was to reestablish discipline in the orchestra. For a number of years, the Symphony had been without a strong music director, and this was reflected in the quality of the playing. At first, I was delighted to hear about the new strictness.”

“But your opinion changed?”

“Yes,” Remmers said. “After the first year, I began to realize that Milan was alienating a number of people with his approach, and during the second year, it seemed as if almost everyone was being alienated by his policies, his brusqueness, his inflexibility.”

“Did you talk to him about this?” Wolfe asked.

“Lord, yes, numerous times. I tried to explain that we needed discipline without intimidation, and he would always insist that this was his way of operating, that it had been successful in London, Vienna, and other places. But each time, our conversations ended with him saying he would try to be more understanding and easier to get along with.

“Unfortunately, his good intentions never seemed to last long, and Meyerhoff would be back griping to me. In the last few months, Charlie started saying he was going to quit, that he couldn’t take the fighting and tension and what he felt was the overpopularization of the repertoire. He said he couldn’t function when we had a music director who wanted to be the general manager as well.”

“But you were able to keep Mr. Meyerhoff in the fold?” Wolfe asked.

“Barely. For the last eight months or so, my main function has been peacemaker, rather than fund-raiser and civic representative of the Symphony, which is what I’m supposed to be. It’s been rough,” he said, running a hand across his chin.

“Are you suggesting by all this that Mr. Meyerhoff might have killed Milan Stevens?”

Remmers jerked upright. “Oh no, no, not necessarily. There were others who probably disliked Milan every bit as much as he did. To name two, Dave Hirsch, the associate conductor, and Donald Sommers, the principal flutist.”

Wolfe shifted uneasily. He hadn’t rung for beer, and I knew why. “What were the causes of their animus toward Mr. Stevens?”

“Well, Hirsch had been associate conductor under the previous music director and seemed to think he was the logical choice at the time we brought in Stevens. But it was explained to him that he wasn’t even being considered for the post. Off the record, he just hasn’t got the presence or the depth for the job. Anyway, he’s resented Stevens from day one, and it’s gotten worse. Milan didn’t delegate much responsibility, so Hirsch was doing less than he had before. And to make matters worse, Hirsch had composed a symphony that he would dearly love to have premiered by the orchestra. But Stevens told him he didn’t find its caliber high enough for the Symphony. Since then, they’ve barely been on speaking terms. I’ve been expecting Hirsch to come in any day and tell me he’s quitting after the current season.”

“With Mr. Stevens dead, will Mr. Hirsch become the music director?” Wolfe asked.

Remmers shook his head vigorously. “Only on an interim basis. We’re making the formal announcement of his appointment this afternoon. I’ve already talked to Dave, and he seems resigned to never being the Symphony’s chief conductor. Down deep, I think he’s aware of his limitations, and he knows he could never handle the job in the long run. I suspect he realizes that any potential he has for growth in the music world is as a composer rather than a conductor.

“In fact, part of my peacemaking work in the last few weeks was trying to persuade Stevens to give the premiere of Hirsch’s symphony. And I think I just about talked him into it.”

Wolfe considered the wall clock, then looked back at Remmers. “And what of Mr. Sommers?”

“Ah yes, another case of bitterness,” he said. “Don Sommers performed a flute solo a few weeks ago that got so-so reviews, and not long afterward, in an interview in the Times, Stevens said one of his biggest problems was the lackadaisical attitude of a number of the principal players. Sommers chose to interpret this as a direct slap at him, although in the paper Stevens was quoted as criticizing ‘several soloists.’ Anyway, the two of them got into a shouting session backstage a day or two later, and since then, they hadn’t been on speaking terms.”

Wolfe frowned. “It would seem that the orchestra exists on a continuum of screaming matches and angry silences.”

Remmers threw back his head and laughed. “Based on what I’ve told you, that’s a natural enough conclusion. Actually, though, things aren’t nearly that chaotic most of the time. But then, you asked specifically about those people who had problems with Milan Stevens, so you’re hearing about the turmoil.”

“What I started out asking for,” Wolfe corrected, “were your suggestions as to who might have killed Mr. Stevens. Do you think any of the three you named — or anyone else within the orchestra — is a likely candidate?”

“A few days ago, I would have laughed off that question. But a few days ago, I’d also have scoffed at anyone who said that our music director would be stabbed to death in his own home. To be totally candid, I wouldn’t rule out any of them, although I wouldn’t presume to point at one as a more likely suspect than the other two. As far as the rest of the orchestra... no, these three and Milner were the only ones I’m aware of who’ve had particularly bitter experiences with Stevens.”

Wolfe scowled. “Let’s return to you, sir. Because you were instrumental in the hiring of Mr. Stevens, has some of the criticism of his performance been directed to you?”

“Indeed it has,” Remmers said. “One paper’s music critic has said that the blame for what he called the ‘Stevens debacle’ should rest with me. You see, at the time we were looking for a new music director, the music-policy committee was terribly split on candidates for the job. Meyerhoff is head of that committee, but they were going nowhere, so I stepped in with Stevens’s name. I got support for him from committee members, and finally Meyerhoff gave in too. In recent months, some of the same people on the committee who applauded that selection began saying I made a first-class blunder.”

“What has your response been to this criticism?”

“I’m pretty thick-skinned, Mr. Wolfe,” he said, coming on again with that engaging grin that you see in society-page photographs. “I’ve been involved in a number of civic projects through the years, and I’ve taken a lot of shots from a lot of people because of various decisions of mine. All of which has helped me grow a tough hide. The only thing that’s bothered me about the flap over Stevens is the realization I’ve come to in the last six months: Stevens wasn’t working out. I had made a bum call, and I was prepared to rectify it.”

“Were you planning to fire him?” Wolfe asked.

“In effect. His contract was up for renewal, and I was going before the board with the suggestion that we seek a new music director.”

“Was Mr. Stevens aware of this?”

“I hadn’t talked to him about it, although I would have in the next few weeks,” Remmers said. “I think he probably suspected it might be coming, though.”

“Would you have taken this as a personal failure?” Wolfe asked.

Remmers shrugged his lean shoulders. “Not really. Again, I’m used to criticism — you can’t have a position like this one without being a target. And considering the problems the Symphony had with its last few conductors, Stevens really wasn’t that much of a disaster.”

“Mr. Remmers, if I may shift to another subject,” Wolfe said, “do you know a woman named Lucinda Forrester-Moore?”

“I suppose you could say I know her,” Remmers said. “I’ve met her at a number of parties, benefits, that sort of thing, through the years. Her late husband, Baxter Moore, and I both went to Harvard, and we ran into each other at alumni functions; he was in the shipping business. I guess I know why you’re asking about her: She and Milan Stevens had become an item in the last year or so.”

“Did you perceive theirs as a serious relationship?” Wolfe asked.

“I couldn’t really say. They were together a good deal, of course, but I could never figure out whether it was romantic or just a handy pairing. Lucinda loves to be in the middle of things, and it’s pretty damn prestigious to have the Symphony maestro on your arm when you sweep into the theater or a dinner party. But then, since her husband’s death six, seven years ago, she’s had a history of attracting well-known men — it’s sort of her trademark.”

“Did Mr. Stevens ever mention her to you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Remmers said. “However, there was no particular reason why he should. Our own relationship wasn’t such that personal matters were discussed. In fact, I can’t picture Milan Stevens discussing his personal life with anybody.”

Wolfe drew in half the oxygen in the room, then exhaled slowly. “Just two more questions, Mr. Remmers. First, if I want to see the three men you mentioned, could you arrange it?”

“Yes, I think so. You’d want to see them here, of course. They might not like it, particularly Charlie Meyerhoff, but they’ll come, either together or separately, as you wish. If you let me know when you want them...”

“Mr. Goodwin will call you with a precise time,” Wolfe said. “And we’ll want to see them all at once. The other question, sir: Where were you on Wednesday night between seven-thirty and eight-thirty?”

Remmers flashed that grin again. It was easy to see him in the role of fund-raiser. “I knew that was coming. Nineteen nights out of twenty, I’d have a drum-tight alibi — a dinner, a reception, the opera, maybe the Symphony itself. But I had an upset stomach Wednesday, so I begged off a dinner invitation at the home of some friends, and my wife went alone. I spent the early part of the evening reading, and about a quarter to eight, I went out for a walk — I needed the fresh air to help settle me. I walked around a few blocks in our neighborhood — we live on Beekman Place — and I was back home by nine or so. Unfortunate timing, isn’t it?”

“Did you see anyone?” Wolfe asked.

“Just the doorman in our building, and I suppose the hallman, too. The doorman and I chatted briefly both when I left and came back. Otherwise, I saw at least a dozen people walking their dogs, but nobody I knew.”

“Very well,” Wolfe said, looking at the wall clock again. “I know your schedule is a busy one, and I appreciate your taking the time to come here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wolfe,” Remmers said, rising. He started to reach out a hand, then remembered where he was and dipped his head. I followed him out to the front hall and helped him on with the cashmere, then watched him bound down the steps to a parked limousine that looked to be twice the length of the car that had waited for Cramer earlier.

When I got back to the office, Fritz was on his way out, having just deposited a glass and two bottles of beer in front of Wolfe. “Hah!” I said. “You didn’t want him to see you drinking the family brew, did you? Afraid he’d think you were buttering him up?”

“Nonsense,” Wolfe shot back as he poured beer and watched the foam settle. “It merely would have distracted from our conversation. Mr. Remmers undoubtedly would have felt some comment was necessary, which in turn would have elicited a response from me, and so on. I did not invite him here to indulge in small talk.”

“You didn’t invite him at all, he invited himself,” I retorted, but his face was already hidden by an open book, which always happens when I get in the last word.