Murder in E Minor

17

It snowed all morning, so that by noon the plows were whining and scraping outside on Thirty-fifth Street. I’d slept late, and by the time I got myself together and went down to the kitchen, it was ten-fifteen. Wolfe wasn’t around; on Sundays, he abandons his weekly schedule, usually staying in his room until at least noon. Fritz was ready for me with a pot of coffee, the Sunday Times, and sausage links and wheatcakes ready to go on the griddle. He asked how the case was coming, but I told him to try me later, maybe tomorrow. This was the fourth day since the murder, and already the Times had bumped Milan Stevens off the front page. They did have a long page-three story, though; it said that a spokesman in the D.A.’s office hoped that Gerald Milner’s trial could begin “in the next few weeks.” Further down in the story was a mention that the Stevens memorial service would be held Monday afternoon.

After polishing off six wheatcakes and five sausage links, I refilled my coffee mug and went to the office. My desk calendar had just the single notation for Sunday: I had penciled in “three from Symph.” at four P.M. Turning to the phone, I dialed Jason Remmers’s number, and for the second time in as many days, he answered himself. He was only too happy to provide what I asked for: thumbnail biographies of the three who were coming to see us today. I took down his comments in shorthand and thanked him for his trouble, then did my own editing. I typed out brief summaries of each of the three, and by single-spacing was able to fit it all on one sheet, which I put in the center of the blotter on Wolfe’s desk. Here’s how it read:

Just as I got back to my desk, the phone rang. It was Lucinda. “Archie, I just remembered something that might be important — you know, on the subject we talked about yesterday.”

“Okay, shoot,” I said, poising a pencil.

“No, I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. Couldn’t you come up?”

I tried to tell her the telephone lines were perfectly safe, but it was obvious she was holding out for another personal visit. I looked out at the snow and shuddered, but said I’d be along as fast as I could. Leaving a note on Wolfe’s blotter next to the sheet of biographies, I pulled on overshoes and heavy coat and charged out into the mini-blizzard.

By some miracle I found a taxi within a block and was at Lucinda’s ten minutes later; all sane New Yorkers were at home and the streets were deserted. This time I didn’t get any of the boredom-and-snobbery routine from the lobby crew. They seemed to be expecting me, and the hallman even gave a fair impersonation of somebody trying to be friendly, which I halfheartedly returned.

Things also went more smoothly inside Lucinda’s apartment than the day before. This time I didn’t get a twenty-four-minute shuffle. In fact, she was waiting in the white-on-white-on-white sitting room, wearing a gauzy full-length number the color of raspberry sherbet when Miss Mouse ushered me in. “Archie, I’m glad you could come so quickly,” she said from a sofa, looking up to be kissed. I aimed discreetly at her cheek, but damned if she didn’t turn her face at the last instant and lay one square on my lips, with her own slightly parted.

I had to brace myself or she would have pulled me down on top of her, and for a second I came pretty close to letting her do it. But I finally broke the hold and slid, almost gracefully, onto the sofa next to her. “That was a four-star welcome,” I said, smiling and running a hand through my hair. “And as much as I’d like to find out what you do for an encore, I think we’d better get to business. For starters, what was it you remembered that’s so important?”

“Oh, Archie,” she said, returning the smile and putting an arm across the top of the sofa behind me, “I apologize if I came on so boldly, but I told you yesterday how good-looking I think you are. I guess I just let myself...” She trailed it off, and in too studied a way, I thought. “Archie, after you left yesterday, I got to thinking about all the times I had been with Milan, all the things he had ever said that had any connection with the orchestra. There was something once, it must have been close to a year ago. It seemed so unimportant at the time...” She really liked using the trailing-off trick.

“Tell me about it,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

“Well, as I remember it, we were right here in this room, having drinks. By the way, can I get you something?” I shook my head and she went on. “Milan was quite upset that evening. It seemed that he and Mr. Hirsch had a meeting in Milan’s office at Symphony Hall to talk over some orchestra matters, routine things. I gather they would meet often to do that. Anyway, this day there was a strong argument — I can’t even remember if Milan said what it was about. But Mr. Hirsch started the argument and became very agitated. Milan said that at one point he stood up, banged his fist on Milan’s desk, and said something like I’d kill before I saw this orchestra go to hell. And if things keep on this way, that’s where it will go.’ I may have the words a little wrong, Archie, but that’s basically what he said. And he used the word ‘kill,’ although you know how people talk sometimes.”

“And you don’t know what the argument was about?” I asked.

“I’m not sure Milan ever said. What I remember most was how upset he got about Mr. Hirsch’s temper.”

“Was he afraid for his own safety? Did he say anything about that?”

“Oh no, no, he never mentioned it. Milan didn’t ever seem to fear for himself. I think his main concern was for the orchestra. And he felt his associate conductor wasn’t supportive of him.”

“Not from the sound of it,” I agreed, drawing on my cigarette. “Tell me, why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”

Her answer was a coy smile. “You made me nervous, Archie. I guess you could say I wasn’t thinking straight... all those questions, all the strain after what happened.”

She was one hell of an actress, that was for sure. She knew where to make the pauses, which words to accent, how to tilt her head. It was almost like watching one of those British whodunit plays Lily drags me to every so often.

“While I’m here and we’re on the subject, do you happen to know Donald Sommers?” I asked.

“From the orchestra?” Lucinda paused and pushed back a stray hair. “I don’t really know him, but I’ve met him a few times.”

“Did Stevens ever say anything about him, anything negative?”

“You mean he’s another one who is suspected?” she asked, shifting to face me.

“I didn’t say that.” I grinned. “I was just curious because I’ve heard his name a few times.”

“I think perhaps he and Milan had fought over a solo once. But he is so young — he looks so young. I would think of him as just a boy.”

“A boy who’s pushing thirty.”

She shrugged. “Well, I somehow got the feeling that Milan wasn’t fond of him, that maybe he would be happier if he were not a part of the orchestra.”

“You seem to be remembering all kinds of things that you couldn’t yesterday,” I said lightly.

“Oh, Archie, please don’t tease me. I really can’t recite anything specific that Milan said about Mr. Sommers. It’s just an impression I got.”

“Okay, one last thing before I go. How would you describe Stevens’s relationship with Charles Meyerhoff?”

Another shrug. “Maybe somewhat strained. But to be honest, I don’t ever remember Milan talking at all about Charles to me.”

“Could that have been because you used to go out with Meyerhoff?”

“That of course is possible,” she said. “But I never once got the feeling Milan felt any bitterness toward Charles for any reason, and although I haven’t seen Charles that much recently, I never sensed any dislike for Milan on his part. But then” — she stretched out both arms palms up and did another eye-roll — “what do I know?”

“You know a great deal,” I said, “but whether I’m hearing all of it is a different matter.” When she started to protest, I held up a silencing hand and said I really had to go, but that she’d be hearing from me or Wolfe. We wrapped our arms around each other at the door, and I was the one who finally broke the clinch, or we might still be there.

It was harder getting a cab back, and it was after one when I walked into the office. Wolfe looked up from a book, his face a question mark.

“Lucinda F-M is really something,” I said, slipping into my desk chair. “Seems she had a sudden burst of recollection and had to share it with me.” I then gave him a verbatim report, leaving out only the details of our opening and closing embraces, which he wouldn’t have appreciated anyway. “Has your opinion of her changed since yesterday?” he asked after I had finished.

“I think I trust her less than I did. Maybe it’s all those damn theatrical poses she strikes,” I said. “Also, she seems to have a very selective memory. If you’re looking for odds on whether she did it, I’m still not ready to give any, though. Maybe that’s because she kisses so well.”

Wolfe grimaced and picked up the sheet with the thumbnail biographies. “They’re all still coming?”

“Yes, sir, at least as far as I know. I talked to Remmers this morning — that’s where I got the biographical stuff. Do you want to see them all at once, or should I hold them in the front room and bring them in one at a time?”

“All at once. The interaction may be instructive to watch, particularly if Mr. Meyerhoff does indeed have a quick temper. Has Saul or Fred called?”

I said they hadn’t and he nodded, then picked up his book and submerged himself while I went back to playing catch-up with the orchid records.

If nothing else could be said for that Sunday-afternoon visit, at least they arrived promptly: My watch read two minutes past four when the doorbell rang. Through the one-way panel, I didn’t have any trouble figuring out which body was attached to which name. Meyerhoff was standing in front of the others, and he didn’t look happy. He was the shortest of the three, with wavy brown hair that was retreating up his forehead and probably would disappear altogether in the next ten years. The one with horn-rimmed glasses had to be Hirsch, if for no other reason than age. He was three or four inches taller than Meyerhoff and had a scraggly mustache, and his face wasn’t filled with sunshine either. Sommers was a head taller than Hirsch, and even with his black topcoat on, I could see that he was nearly as thin as the instrument he played. He had shaggy black hair and eyebrows, and his own expression was one of worry rather than anger.

The bell rang for a second time just as I swung the door open. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, please come in,” I said in a hearty tone. “Awful day, isn’t it?” I got only grunts in reply, and my calling each by name as I helped him off with his coat didn’t seem to make an impression. “Where’s Wolfe?” Meyerhoff demanded. “I want to get this over with fast.”

I led them to the office, still playing the hearty butler role. Before I was finished with the brief introductions, Meyerhoff had attached himself to the red leather chair and thrust his chin at Wolfe as if daring him to challenge the choice of seats.

It didn’t get a rise. Wolfe acknowledged each of them with a nod, then slipped the gold strip into his book and put it down deliberately. His eyes settled on Meyerhoff, then went to Hirsch, seated next to him in a yellow chair, and finally to Sommers, who had been left with the yellow chair closest to me.

“We can give you a half-hour, no more,” Meyerhoff said loudly, looking at his wrist. “We wouldn’t have come at all, except that Jason asked us to. I can’t see any reason for this, what with—”

“A moment, please,” Wolfe said, holding up a hand. “If you’ll indulge me in a preface, Mr. Meyerhoff? Thank you. I assure you my admiration for brevity is at least equal to your own. Before we begin, would anyone care for refreshments? I’m having beer.”

Meyerhoff gave a vigorous shake of his head, which seemed to set the mood for the others. They also declined, although more graciously.

“Very well,” Wolfe said, touching his buzzer and giving them the once-over again. “As Mr. Remmers told you and as you have no doubt read in the papers, I have been hired to identify the killer of Milan Stevens. Now, I—”

“This is crazy!” Meyerhoff roared. “Everybody knows who killed Milan. The police got the right person, and they got him fast. Why can’t we just—”

“We seem to be interrupting each other, Mr. Meyerhoff,” Wolfe snapped. “If you please. You’ve all taken the trouble to brave execrable weather to get here, and I thank you for it. You moments ago expressed your desire that this meeting be brief. It can only be so if you allow me to continue. You’ll all have your turn to speak.”

“God, you’re every bit as arrogant as I’d heard,” Meyerhoff said, crossing his arms. Then he gestured to me. “Is he going to stay in here taking notes?”

“Arrogant?” Wolfe asked, lifting his shoulders a quarter of an inch and dropping them. “Perhaps, although I prefer ‘self-possessed.’ As to Mr. Goodwin, yes, he is present at all meetings in this room. And his faculties are such that if he did not take notes, he could nonetheless reconstruct verbatim a conversation of several hours’ duration. I had no idea anyone would object to his attendance. After all, each of you also is a witness to everything that will be said here.” Wolfe focused on Meyerhoff, who scowled but didn’t open his mouth.

“Now, if I may go on,” Wolfe said, pouring beer, “Mr. Milner has of course been charged with murder. He is known to have been in the Stevens apartment on Wednesday night, and is also known to have had a confrontation backstage with Mr. Stevens recently, a confrontation that centered on Mr. Milner’s relationship with Maria Radovich. These are well-documented occurrences, and I do not quarrel with them. For my own reasons, however, I believe someone other than Mr. Milner killed Milan Stevens.”

“And what might those reasons be?” It was David Hirsch, his Austrian origins showing in a slight accent. He cleared his throat and fidgeted.

“No, Mr. Hirsch,” Wolfe said, “as I stated, they are my own reasons, and I’m not prepared to share them right now.”

“This sounds like a fishing expedition to me,” Meyerhoff barked. “Your reputation for exorbitant fees is well known in this town. You’ve got a client who doesn’t want to believe the man she loves committed murder — the murder of her own uncle. Enter Nero Wolfe. She turns to you, and you accommodate by calling in anyone who ever had words with Milan. Oh, don’t think we don’t know why we’re all here; we talked about it on the way over. Each of us has at one time or another gone at it with him — and me more than anybody, it’s true. But we’re not alone; there are others in the orchestra who’ve fought with him or have some reason to resent him. I’ll be glad to supply you with names — then you can spend the next month questioning them, too.” Meyerhoff, who’d been leaning forward during his little speech, slouched back into the chair and folded his arms again.

“I appreciate your offer,” Wolfe said dryly. “I also appreciate the mention of your various disputes with Mr. Stevens. It saves me the trouble of having to bring it up as the raison d’être for this gathering.” He paused for a sip of beer. “Mr. Meyerhoff, since you brought up the subject, I’ll ask you first: What were the bases of your disagreements with Milan Stevens?”

“I assume you know at least a part of the answer to that question already, from your talks with Jason. But as long as I’m here, I might as well indulge you, to use your own word.” He leaned forward again, elbows on the arms of his chair. “I’ve been managing director of the Philharmonic for a little over six years now. When I joined it, the orchestra was in chaos. The music director at that time was incapable of exercising authority and maintaining discipline — I think that’s a fair statement, isn’t it, David?”

Hirsch nodded, grim-faced. “Yes, in fact an understatement. ‘Chaos’ is the word I’d use, too.”

Meyerhoff went on. “The Symphony board decided after several years of badgering from a number of us that a change had to be made. It was about then that Jason became chairman, and he was strongly in favor of hiring Milan, who at that time was in London. Milan had a well-known name in music circles, particularly in Europe, but from musicians and other orchestra people I’d heard things about him that I didn’t like.”

“What things?” Wolfe asked.

“Well, for one, his choice of repertoire. Instead of trying to introduce his audiences to some of the lesser-known composers and some more contemporary music, he invariably took a safe ‘popular’ tack: a lot of familiar, comfortable works — by all the favorite composers. But you’d rarely see him conduct Berg or Schonberg or Bruckner, or give the premiere of a new work. I felt the Symphony should be more innovative and experimental in its repertoire. You need some of the traditional and the popular, yes, but there should be a balance. Stevens simply was not the man to supply that balance.” All the while Meyerhoff spoke, Hirsch nodded at varying speeds.

“Another thing was Milan’s personality,” Meyerhoff continued. “The Symphony needed discipline, yes, but not despotism. This is an orchestra of great individual talents, Mr. Wolfe. For instance, Don here is the finest flutist in the United States, perhaps the world.” Sommers flushed and muttered a denial. “Yes, you are, Don, and I’d say it whether you were sitting here or not. Anyway, the Symphony is loaded with great talent, and it takes a skilled, tactful music director to make these marvelously gifted individuals play well together. You don’t do that with an iron hand alone; there must be a subtle mixture of understanding and discipline. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but the truth is that Milan Stevens simply didn’t have the warmth to handle the situation. He could keep order, but he lacked the humanity necessary to coax greatness from his players.

“Time and again I talked to him, urged him to loosen up and be more flexible. But the answer was always the same: There is no substitute for firmness, and they must know who is boss.’ And whenever I suggested he modify his approach, he became angry.”

“Mr. Hirsch, do you concur with this assessment?” Wolfe asked.

Hirsch cleared his throat again. “Yes, yes I do. I was also associate conductor under Milan’s predecessor, and when Milan was chosen, I was disappointed. I won’t deny that I’d hoped I might be picked as music director myself, but” — he shrugged in acceptance — “that was not to be. I resolved to work with the new director, but almost from the beginning, Milan made it clear to me by his actions that I would have almost nothing to say about how the orchestra was run. I often wondered why he even kept me around, but one day I figured it out. It didn’t matter who the associate conductor was; under Milan Stevens, he would have very little responsibility, so he probably felt it might as well be me as anyone.”

“I understand you have a composition that you hoped the orchestra would someday play,” Wolfe said.

Hirsch passed a hand over his forehead. “Yes, that’s so,” he said after a pause.

“But it was not played?”

Another pause. “No. Milan apparently felt it was not... of sufficient caliber to merit a Symphony premiere.” Hirsch compressed his lips.

“Why ‘apparently’?” Wolfe asked.

“I say ‘apparently’ because Milan never came right out and said the symphony wasn’t good. But every time I brought it up, he changed the subject or put it off by saying something like ‘Oh, yes, we’ve got to sit down and talk about this when things ease up, but right now is such a hectic time.’ He was always too busy. And yet I know it is a good work — I’ve shown it to many people in the music world whose opinions I respect, and everyone has been enthusiastic, far more than they needed to be just to make me feel good.”

“Other than its quality, what reason might Mr. Stevens have for not playing your symphony?”

Hirsch shook his head. “I don’t know, unless he just didn’t want his assistant to get a share of the spotlight.”

“Mr. Hirsch,” Wolfe said, “was there an open hostility between you and Mr. Stevens?”

Hirsch fiddled with his glasses and uncrossed his legs. “I wouldn’t say so. We did argue sometimes, usually in private, about his treatment of some of the orchestra members.”

“You thought he was too much the martinet?”

Hirsch nodded. “Yes, he humiliated some of them during rehearsals, shouting insults, generally demeaning them. I felt it upset the whole orchestra, destroyed morale. Instead of getting them to play better, which I assume was the intent, it had the opposite effect.”

“This was a frequent occurrence?”

“Yes, at practically every rehearsal. It was as if he enjoyed being so cruel.”

“And you reminded him of it?” Wolfe asked.

“Quite often. But he would just brush me aside. ‘They are professionals,’ he would say, ‘and I expect them to play like professionals, not like members of some community orchestra.’”

Wolfe shifted his weight. “Is it true, Mr. Hirsch, that you once told Mr. Stevens you would kill for the orchestra?”

“What?” Hirsch twitched like he’d just gotten a high-voltage jolt. “Who told you that? I never said such a thing!”

By this time, both Meyerhoff and Sommers were trying to jump in. “Gentlemen!” Wolfe snapped it off. It wasn’t loud, but it shut all three of them up. “If you please, at the risk of being repetitious, you’ll all be able to leave here sooner without interruptions.” He turned back to Hirsch.

“It has been said that you spoke the following, or something very similar, at a meeting in Mr. Stevens’s office: ‘I’d kill before I saw this orchestra go to hell. And if things keep on this way, that’s where it will go.’ Well, Mr. Hirsch?” Wolfe’s eyes narrowed.

Beads of perspiration were forming on Hirsch’s nose bridge, above his glasses. He looked at Meyerhoff and Sommers, then licked his lips. “Mr. Wolfe, I never said that, or anything like it.” His voice was tense but low, and he accented each word. “I don’t talk that way,” he continued, gaining speed. “Ask anyone I know. I wouldn’t use a word like ‘kill,’ or even ‘hell.’ I can’t—”

“That’s true,” Meyerhoff cut in. “I’ve never heard David—”

“Enough!” Wolfe spat, silencing Meyerhoff. “Mr. Hirsch, please go on.”

“I started to say, I can’t imagine who would make up a story like that. It just isn’t true. I was angry with Milan quite a few times — many times — but I would never, ever say such a thing.” He looked around again, at each one of us, and then down at his lap. I started feeling sorry for the guy.

“Mr. Hirsch,” Wolfe continued, “can you imagine why anyone would concoct such a story?”

“No, I don’t think I have enemies within the orchestra, other than...”

“Yes?”

“Other than Milan,” Hirsch said, slumping in his chair.

“You considered Mr. Stevens an enemy?” Wolfe asked.

“No, but I think he considered me one,” he said.

Wolfe eyed Hirsch. “Were you planning to resign?”

“I had... considered it at one time, but recently Charlie — Mr. Meyerhoff — had said there might be a change in music directors before too long.”

Wolfe turned to Meyerhoff. The managing director leaned forward on his elbows again. “That’s true. Jason had always been Stevens’s big defender, and the board pretty well went along with whatever Jason wanted. I’ve been telling him for over a year how bad the orchestra’s morale is, and recently he seemed to be coming around to my view, although he was giving up very hard.”

“I gather that if Milan Stevens were to have been fired, it would have been a major setback for Mr. Remmers,” Wolfe said.

“Yes, I think that’s a fair statement,” Meyerhoff said. “He had made a lot out of our getting Stevens originally, and it hadn’t improved things at all — in fact, just the opposite.”

“Did Mr. Stevens resent you?” Wolfe asked Meyerhoff.

“I’m sure he did — he resented anybody who tried to tell him what to do in any way at all.”

“And did you in turn resent him?”

Meyerhoff shrugged. “I guess you might say I resented what he was doing to the orchestra, his inability to pull it together, his refusal to show them any warmth or understanding.”

Wolfe drained his second beer and set down the glass. “Lucinda Forrester-Moore had been a frequent companion of Mr. Stevens’s recently. Is it true that you and she once spent a lot of time together?”

Meyerhoff smiled for the first time since he’d set foot in the brown-stone. “Oh, we’d gone to a number of plays and parties and dinners together — just a thing of convenience,” he said gently. “It was never what you’d term a serious relationship.”

Wolfe nodded and shifted his attention. “Mr. Sommers, I hadn’t meant to omit you from this discussion. Will you share your feelings on your late music director?”

Sommers uncrossed and recrossed his long legs. “They’re pretty much like David’s and Mr. Meyerhoff’s,” he said in a high-pitched voice that seemed somehow to go with his build. “He was certainly anything but a warm man, at least in his dealings within the orchestra. As David said, rehearsals were grim affairs, and he often singled out musicians who he felt weren’t doing as well as they should.

“I don’t want to come on like I’m paranoid,” Sommers said, “but I’m sure Mr. Stevens wanted to be rid of me. I could tell by the way he acted whenever we discussed anything one-on-one, such as a solo I was going to do. He always seemed terribly impatient with me. And then there was that newspaper article...”

“Yes?” Wolfe asked.

“A few weeks ago in a Sunday interview, Mr. Stevens said that several soloists were more interested in their own careers than in the good of the orchestra. That article ran just two weeks after one of my solos, and I’m sure he meant me specifically. Again, that sounds paranoid, doesn’t it? Well, I do think he was out for me.”

“Are you more interested in your career than in the orchestra as a whole?” Wolfe asked.

“I love the Symphony,” Sommers said. “It’d always been my goal to play here, even when I was growing up in Boston. I would never have done anything that ran against the orchestra’s best interests, and I always thought of myself as a team player.”

“Would you have left the Symphony if you felt Mr. Stevens was holding you back?” Wolfe asked.

Sommers looked at both Meyerhoff and Hirsch before talking. “I haven’t told anyone this, but now I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’d thought a lot lately about leaving. Chicago was interested and so was Boston, and I had some initial talks with people in both places.”

Meyerhoff looked stunned. “Don, why didn’t you come in and at least talk to me first?”

“I know, I know, I should have,” Sommers squeaked, holding up a hand. “But I had to sort this out myself. I didn’t want to leave, but...”

“You see?” Meyerhoff said, bounding from his chair and leaning on Wolfe’s desk with one arm. “You see now what that man was doing to our orchestra? Here’s the finest flutist anywhere, a man who loves the Symphony, and he was being driven away.”

“Please sit down, sir,” Wolfe said peevishly. “Your point is made, and I prefer having people at eye level.” Meyerhoff shook his head and sat down. “Thank God you’ll be staying with us now, Don,” he said. Sommers nodded and smiled weakly.

“Well, Mr. Sommers, it seems that congratulations are in order,” Wolfe said, turning back to the flutist. “You’ve decided that without Milan Stevens, the New York Symphony is a better place to work, is that true? Is that a fair statement?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sommers croaked.

“But it seems apparent. Do you deny it?”

Sommers looked down and then back up at Wolfe. “No, but I had nothing to do with his... death.”

“You’ll have a chance to prove that,” Wolfe said dryly. “We’ve already gone well over your half-hour, Mr. Meyerhoff,” he continued, looking at the wall clock. “Because this is a murder investigation, two basic questions need of course to be asked of each of you: One, did you kill Milan Stevens, and two, where were you Wednesday evening between seven and nine o’clock? Would you like to start, Mr. Meyerhoff?”

“Of course I didn’t kill him — we all know who did, although I would never have guessed Milner had it in him. As to where I was — not that it really matters — I had a lot of desk work to grind through, so after supper I went back to my office in Symphony Hall and worked until, oh, it must have been close to ten.”

“Was anyone there with you?”

“No, I was alone. There’s a night watchman, but I didn’t see him in the lobby when I left. He must have been somewhere else in the building.”

Wolfe turned to Hirsch.

“Did I kill Milan? Definitely not,” he said curtly. “And on Wednesday night, my wife was out playing bridge. I stayed home reading and listening to music. And to answer your other question, yes, I was alone from about seven until, well, it was ten-thirty or so when she got home. But I can assure you I was there the whole time. We live in New Jersey — Ridgewood — and I took a commuter train that got me there just after six.”

Wolfe turned to Sommers, who swallowed hard and uncrossed his legs again. “A classmate from Juilliard was in town from Denver,” he said, “and we went to the theater that night. I think I may still have the stub at home if you want to see it.”

Wolfe shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary, but I’d advise you to keep it. Is your friend still in New York?”

“He’s gone back to Denver, but I can give you his name and phone number if you want to—”

“Don, this is ridiculous!” Meyerhoff snapped. “This man isn’t a policeman, you don’t have to explain anything to him. Let’s get going — we’ve given him too much time already.” Meyerhoff was on his feet, and the other two looked uncertainly at Wolfe, who made no move to stop them. They tramped to the front hall, with me at their heels. Meyerhoff already had his coat on, but I was quick enough to help Hirsch and Sommers with theirs. I said good-bye, but only Sommers replied; the others were already on their way out and obviously not in the mood for parting pleasantries.

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.