Murder in E Minor

20

It wasn’t hard following through on my assignments Wednesday morning. I started with Jason Remmers and got him at home. “Mr. Wolfe has an important announcement about the Stevens murder,” I said into the phone. “He asks if you could be in his office at nine tonight, and he wonders if you could ask Misters Meyerhoff, Hirsch, and Sommers to come again, as well.” Actually, Wolfe had asked me to get all the orchestra people, but I figured they’d take more from Remmers. He said he could make it that night, and that he’d call me back on the others. “It’s extremely important that everyone be there,” I stressed before we hung up.

Next was Lucinda. “You told me the other day that you always wanted to meet Nero Wolfe,” I said when she answered. “Now’s your chance. He thought you might like to be here at a gathering at nine tonight; it’s to do with Mr. Stevens’s murder.”

“Oh, Archie, I already have plans,” she said. “Do you know what he’s going to say?” I told her I didn’t have the foggiest idea. “Well... if you really want me to be there, all right, I’ll cancel my engagement. For you, Archie.” I said Wolfe and I both appreciated it, and that we’d see her at nine.

Of course Maria gave an emphatic yes when I called her at Lily’s. “You’ve found something out, haven’t you?” she asked.

“I can’t say for sure, but I do know that Mr. Wolfe wants several people to be present — including Gerald Milner.” She promised to bring him along and kept pressing me for more information until I politely ended the call.

At ten, Fred stopped in to get his instructions. He was a little unhappy that Saul had been the one to locate Mindy, but it was more than offset by his relief at being able to quit what he called “the great hooker hunt.”

Just after he left, Remmers called back, saying that all three from the Symphony would show up. “They don’t like it much though,” he said, “especially Charlie and Dave.” I told him that was life and said we’d see him at nine.

Wolfe came down from the plant rooms on schedule. He rang for beer, and after a quick shuffle through the mail, asked about my progress. When I said we’d lined up everyone for the evening, he told me to dial Inspector Cramer. “With pleasure,” I said, punching out the number from memory and staying on the line.

“Mr. Cramer? Good morning, this is Nero Wolfe. I wanted you to know that several people will be here at nine tonight, at which time I’ll be discussing the murder of Milan Stevens. I think you will want to be present as well.”

“Goddammit, I’ve told both you and Goodwin to butt out of this. As far as I’m concerned, the department’s finished its job on the case,” Cramer said.

“It’s your privilege to think that, of course. But I should tell you that whether you’re here or not, I plan to proceed. You can read about it in tomorrow’s Gazette, as Mr. Cohen will undoubtedly be interested in the results.”

Cramer spat a word. “Is this going to be one of your asinine charades in front of a big crowd?”

“I wouldn’t choose that phrasing, but if you’re asking if my office will be crowded, the answer is yes. Despite that, we’ll have room for you, and for Sergeant Stebbins as well, if you care to bring him.”

“I’ll bring whoever I damn well feel like!” he bellowed, hanging up.

“Count on Mr. Cramer being here — with a friend,” Wolfe said, leaning back and closing his eyes.

The day crawled by, maybe because I was checking my watch every two minutes or so. At four-ten, Saul called to say he’d found Tom Hubbard at home. “He was just as happy to see me as Mindy had been,” Saul said. “I laid out what we knew about last Wednesday, which got him. He told me he had to work tonight, but I said that if he didn’t come, the cops would probably show up later in the evening and drag him off anyway. That did it; while I was there, he called somebody to substitute, and I’m picking him up at eight.”

I gave Saul a “Satisfactory” and then called Lon to tell him we’d have something late tonight for tomorrow’s editions, an exclusive. He wanted it all right then, but I insisted that he’d probably have to wait until at least midnight. He said he’d be in his office all night, if necessary.

After dinner while Wolfe was sitting at his desk with coffee, I began setting up: extra ashtrays, chairs from the front room, a fully stocked bar on the small table in the corner. Fred had come at seven-thirty and was upstairs in the South Room with Mindy Ross, who’d gotten a fresh change of clothes, courtesy of a shopping trip Maria had made in the afternoon.

Saul arrived on schedule at eight-thirty with a jittery Tom Hubbard, who looked like he was going to pass out when he saw me. When he recovered, he tried to ask me what was going to happen, but I just nodded to Saul, who steered him into the front room and closed the door behind them. Now we were ready for company.

At eight-forty-three, the bell rang again. It was Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins. “Ah, Inspector, you could make it after all,” I said as they tramped in. “And you brought a date. It’s been a while, Purley.” Stebbins, who’s worked with Cramer for eons and has had what he considers too many dealings with Wolfe and me in the past, nodded his long bony face but didn’t smile. But then, Purley Stebbins isn’t noted for his smiles, particularly when I’m around. At that, I guess you could say we’ve gotten along, more or less, through the years, considering our respective lines of work. He may not be the smartest man in the department, but you’ll never hear me knock his courage or his loyalty. If I had to pick one guy to be on my side in a bar brawl against the Pittsburgh Steelers’ defensive line, it would be Purley, although I’d never give him the satisfaction of telling him that.

“You’re the first,” I said, leading them to the office and explaining the seating. “Mr. Wolfe will be in shortly, and so will some others, I hope.”

“Hah, he’s waiting till they’re all here so he can make one of his grand entries,” I heard Cramer say to Stebbins as I went back to the hall. And he was right: Wolfe had gone to the kitchen at eight-fifteen, ostensibly to help Fritz with the menu planning for the next week, and said he’d be back in when everyone was seated.

They all arrived within about three minutes: first Maria and Milner, holding hands and trying to look brave; then Meyerhoff, looking just as mad as when he’d come last Sunday; then Hirsch and Sommers together, both tight-lipped and grim. Right behind them came a smiling, pipe-puffing Jason Remmers, and finally, in a white fur stole, Lucinda Forrester-Moore, who reached up and pecked my cheek as I closed the front door. “I’m the last one, aren’t I, Archie?” she said with an impish giggle as we went in.

“Last is often best,” I whispered, steering her to the chair nearest my desk.

Everyone else had taken the seats I’d directed them to. The front row had Maria in the red leather chair, Milner next to her, then Sommers, and of course Lucinda next to me. In the second row were Remmers, farthest from me, Meyerhoff in the middle, and Hirsch behind Lucinda. There were two more chairs against the wall, but both Cramer and Stebbins chose to stand.

I made such introductions as were necessary, including Cramer and Stebbins, then went behind Wolfe’s desk and pressed the buzzer to signal him. Next I asked for drink orders. “What’s this with drinks?” Meyerhoff demanded. “I certainly didn’t come here to socialize. In fact, I didn’t want to come at all; I’m only doing it as a favor to you, Jason,” he said, turning to Remmers. “And for the second time, at that. And where the hell is Wolfe, by the way?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Hirsch piped in. “And I agree with you, Charlie. This is ridiculous. Here we are in a room with a man who’s been charged with murder, and we’re going to listen to another man who isn’t even an officer of the law. And yet” — he turned to look at Cramer and Stebbins — “the police themselves show up and seem to tolerate this. It’s absurd!”

Remmers cleared his throat. “I want to say thanks to you both, and to you too, Don, for indulging me tonight. And as long as I’m here, I’d like to order, Mr. Goodwin. Scotch on the rocks, please. Am I drinking alone?”

Sommers also had a Scotch, and Lucinda ordered brandy, but the rest passed. Just as I handed out the drinks, Wolfe appeared at the door, surveyed the scene, then strode in, detouring around the crowd to get behind his desk. He bowed slightly before easing into his chair.

“I, like Mr. Remmers, appreciate your coming tonight,” he said, eyes moving from right to left and back again. “I’ve met you all except Mrs. Forrester-Moore. Madam.” He dipped his head a quarter of an inch and she nodded, smiling. “I trust you’ve all been introduced, and that you’ve met Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins?”

“Yes, and I want to know why they’re here,” Meyerhoff rasped. “This gathering wasn’t presented to us as official police business.”

“And indeed it is not, Mr. Meyerhoff,” Wolfe said. “These two gentlemen are here at my invitation and remain at my sufferance.” He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think any of you would object to their presence, though. Or am I incorrect?” His eyes swept the arc of faces again and were met with silence.

“Good, then we’ll go on,” he said, readjusting his bulk and ringing for beer. “One week ago tonight, as we all know, Milan Stevens was found stabbed to death in his apartment by his niece, Maria Radovich. As you also know, Mr. Goodwin had been waiting downstairs and arrived on the scene just moments later. The reason he and I knew Miss Radovich was that she had feared for the safety of her uncle and approached us for help.

“The source of her anxiety was three threatening letters her uncle had received by mail in the previous two weeks. She brought them to Mr. Goodwin and me, and they now are in the possession of the police. Miss Radovich told us her uncle had thrown these notes away and that she had retrieved them from a wastebasket. Is that correct?” he said, turning to Maria. She nodded and shifted in her chair.

“The first of the notes,” Wolfe went on, “was mailed to Mr. Stevens shortly after he and Mr. Milner had quarreled in a corridor backstage at Symphony Hall, an exchange that was witnessed by several people. Not surprisingly, news of the quarrel quickly spread throughout the Symphony structure. The subject of this argument — actually it was more a diatribe by Mr. Stevens — was Maria Radovich, whom Mr. Milner hoped to marry.” Milner’s face and neck were red, and he kept his eyes aimed at his lap.

“Simplicity itself,” Wolfe said. “The incident in the corridor, followed by the notes, and then by Mr. Milner’s visit to the Stevens apartment on a night when the uncle, who was violently opposed to the marriage, was known to be home alone.

“And then the body, discovered shortly after Mr. Milner’s visit. It would all seem to fit together, which is what the police and the district attorney’s office even now believe. In fact, it was so neat and clean that I briefly considered Mr. Milner a suspect myself. Could he not have planned and executed this murder, intentionally having all the evidence focus on him, and then argue that only a fool would so totally incriminate himself? Possibly, but he did not make that argument at any time after the murder. And I was also quick to reject this theory because, with due respect to the officers present, the police department has not been noted for its appreciation of subtlety. One might well commit a crime and purposely make all the signs point to himself in order to be thought innocent — only to have the police arrest him anyway without looking further. And in the murder of one as well-known and esteemed as Mr. Stevens, the law-enforcement establishment would be — and was — especially anxious to make a fast arrest. If there was an obvious suspect, they would quickly seize him to still the public outcry and relieve the pressure from above.

“I was also troubled by the notes. Mr. Milner may indeed possess the cunning and courage to plan and carry out a murder, but the sending of those notes made no sense. What would he gain by such action? No, the notes were intended to make Mr. Stevens suffer additionally before his death because the intensity of the murderer’s hatred for him was such that even killing was not sufficient punishment. Mr. Milner’s animus toward Mr. Stevens, if indeed it may be called that, was a recent development, brought on by their conflict over Miss Radovich. Were he the murderer, his motive would not be revenge, but simply the removal of the only obstacle to his union with Miss Radovich. And the notes were patently vengeful instruments.”

“Look, this is mildly interesting in an academic sort of way, but it really doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Meyerhoff said. “No court would give the least bit of weight to what you’ve just told us.”

“Perhaps not, sir. This was just by way of telling you why I know Mr. Milner is not the murderer. Now I—”

“Excuse me, but I’d like to ask the inspector what he thinks of your line of reasoning,” Hirsch said, twisting to face Cramer.

“I think it’s so much bull,” Cramer said, “but I’d also like to hear what else Wolfe’s got to say, so we can all go home before sunrise. I know him better than any of you, and I can say this: Nobody’s going to rush him. He’ll have his say — all of it — so if you’re smart, you’ll keep quiet and listen.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said. “I’m an admirer of brevity, but we’re dealing with a complex consecution of events, as you’ll see. Now, after eliminating Mr. Milner, I looked at the other possibilities: There were a number of persons known either to actively dislike Milan Stevens or to at least have reason for being less than friendly toward him.” His eyes traveled over the room again.

“Mr. Remmers, you had placed the full weight of your considerable reputation and integrity behind Mr. Stevens’s appointment as the Symphony’s music director, and the selection had turned out to be disastrous. It would hardly be surprising if you were to feel betrayed by your appointee. Mr. Meyerhoff, you had resented the new conductor’s high-handed methods and also questioned his musical depth. And Mr. Hirsch, you were bitter, perhaps with justification, because you’d wanted the music director’s job yourself, and also because your composition was ignored by Stevens. As for you, Mr. Sommers, you felt that the music director was unjustly critical of your performance and was trying to drive you from the orchestra.” Sommers nodded but said nothing. “Miss Radovich, you were unhappy because your uncle was violently opposed to your choice of a mate.” Maria recoiled like she’d been slapped, and started to say something, but checked herself as Wolfe went on. “Mrs. Forrester-Moore, you were frustrated because you did not receive a proposal of marriage from Mr. Stevens.”

“That is simply not true!” Lucinda said, leaning forward and clenching her fists. “I know that’s been said around town, but it’s cruel and it’s wrong. As I told Archie — Mr. Goodwin — when he came to see me, I didn’t want to get married again any more than Milan did. I won’t deny I was fond of him, but marriage... no, not at all. You can believe that or not, as you choose.”

Wolfe scowled and shrugged. “In any event,” he said, “I evaluated these various grounds for hostility toward Milan Stevens. Each of the affected parties may well have had just cause for at least some degree of anger or bitterness, but is any one of these reasons sufficient to fuel a murder?” He looked around the room again, stopping at each face. “I think not. No, whoever ran that letter opener into Mr. Stevens’s back had to be driven by more deep-seated emotions — indeed, by an enmity far more intense than would have been generated because of his relatively innocuous acts of insensitivity and callousness.”

“Do you call it innocuous when one person tries to destroy the career of another?” It was Sommers’s voice.

“I’ll answer one question with another, sir. Would — or did — such an action toward you cause you to commit murder?”

Sommers turned from Wolfe’s gaze. “Of course not,” he said.

“Now, if I may continue,” Wolfe said. “Almost from the beginning, I realized that last Wednesday night’s violence probably took root some time ago, perhaps long before Mr. Stevens’s arrival in the United States. Had I been less sluggish and more visioned, I would have reached the truth earlier, but...” He raised his shoulders an eighth of an inch and dropped them.

“Before you start launching into Stevens’s life history, let’s get a little more basic,” Cramer snapped. “How do you explain Milner and the apartment building? Nobody else went in the front way, and the back door is locked from the outside.”

“If I may correct you,” Wolfe said, “the hallman says he didn’t see anyone else go in the front way. And I believe him. However, what if he was away from his post at some point during the evening?”

“Conjecture.” Cramer sneered.

“No, sir, not conjecture,” Wolfe retorted. “The hallman, Mr. Hubbard, was away from his desk — indeed, outside the building — for a period of perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. It was that absence that made possible the murderer’s unseen entry into the building.”

Everyone started talking at once, firing questions at Wolfe and at each other. “Please!” Wolfe said over the hubbub. “If I may go on.”

“You’d better back up what you’re saying,” Cramer said, “or I swear to God that you’ll be retired permanently this time.”

“I’ll be the one to decide when I retire, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said coldly. “And I’m quite capable of backing up what I say. It would be much simpler, however, without interruptions.” He leaned back and closed his eyes until all the chatter had stopped.

“Mr. Thomas Hubbard, the hallman in the building where the murder occurred, has an excessive fondness for... women of the streets, particularly redheaded ones. This is well-known along the block where he works — it’s even something of a joke among his fellow doormen and hallmen, as one of my agents found out on a visit to the block.

“Milan Stevens’s murderer also must have discovered this fact — it wouldn’t have been hard to do — and put it to use. A prostitute with red hair was located and was paid well to stroll into the building lobby, engage Mr. Hubbard in conversation, and entice him into a car that had been parked down the block expressly for this purpose. It was while the two of them were in the car and Mr. Hubbard was distracted that the murderer entered the building. This was before Mr. Milner was scheduled to arrive and after the doorman had gone off duty for the night, so the front of the building was unguarded. The murderer took a chance on being seen by some other tenant or visitor in the lobby or the elevator, of course. If someone had indeed happened along, the project could merely have been postponed and restructured in a different format; those determined to kill can always find opportunities. Mr. Stevens would have been puzzled by the arrival of Gerald Milner, but beyond that, the evening would have been uneventful.

“But the plan went as scheduled. No one was encountered in the lobby or elevator. The murderer took the elevator to Stevens’s floor and rang the bell. Stevens doubtless thought it strange that there was someone upstairs when the hallman hadn’t called from the lobby first, but he opened the door to his killer — after all, it was someone he knew well. That the stab wounds were in the back is additional indication of this.”

“Wait a minute,” Cramer cut in again. “This thing has more holes than the Mets’ infield. How did your hypothetical killer know when to go to the apartment and find Stevens home? And how did he avoid running into Milner?”

“I’ll try to fill in the holes, sir, if you’ll allow me. Everyone in this room probably knew of Milan Stevens’s schedule, at least to a degree. His practice was to spend Wednesday nights at home alone going over the scores for upcoming performances. And it was hardly a secret that Miss Radovich had dance rehearsals every Wednesday night, too. Also, the killer knew precisely when Gerald Milner would arrive, because it was the killer who wrote to him on Stevens’s own notepaper, asking that he come to the apartment at eight-fifteen.”

“This is ridiculous!” Hirsch said. “If Milan was already dead when Milner got there, who told the hallman to let him come up?”

Wolfe frowned and took a sip of beer. “This will be far simpler without interruptions. The murderer wrote the note — Stevens’s notepaper would be easily accessible to anyone in this room — asking that Milner go to his apartment. Then, the prostitute was contracted for, undoubtedly in advance. She lured Hubbard from the building at a prearranged time, probably about seven-forty-five, and the murderer went up unnoticed, was let into the apartment by Stevens, and killed him.

“The murderer didn’t leave immediately, but rather stayed in the apartment with the corpse, waiting for Mr. Milner’s arrival. When he got there promptly at eight-fifteen, Mr. Hubbard was back at his station in the lobby: The prostitute had been given specific instructions that he must be returned to his desk by no later than five after eight. Milner asked for Stevens, Hubbard dialed the number, and the murderer picked up the phone, probably mumbling something like ‘Have him come up’ — just a few words, not enough for Hubbard to be suspicious of the voice.

“The murderer, who knew the building well, then moved quickly, leaving the front door ajar to allow entry for Mr. Milner and his fingerprints. The killer then left by the back door of the apartment, taking the service elevator or the back stairway down, then exiting via the rear door and the gangway that runs alongside the building. There’s an iron gate to the street that’s locked from the outside, but anyone on the inside can open it merely by pushing the panic bar. So the murderer disappeared into the darkness, and Mr. Milner wandered into the apartment calling Mr. Stevens’s name, exactly as had been intended.

“The police have the rest of Mr. Milner’s story,” Wolfe said, looking at Cramer. “He discovered the body and, realizing he’d be the prime suspect, fled in alarm, leaving the apartment as he found it — except for his fingerprints — and leaving the front door open. His running away was a bonus for the real murderer, who probably thought Milner would call the police when he found the body. That he didn’t made things look even worse for him than they would have.

“In any case, Mr. Milner’s presence in the apartment had been definitely established. And the murderer further knew that because of the nature of Hubbard’s absence from the lobby, he, Hubbard, would never volunteer that he had been gone for a few minutes. Hubbard could be expected to state — as he did — that he was on duty all evening and that Milner was the only person who had asked to see Stevens.”

“Fascinating but farfetched,” Cramer said. “For one thing, who’s the hooker? And what does Hubbard say about all this?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Wolfe said, touching the buzzer under his desk. Everyone turned to the door, which in a few seconds was opened by Saul Panzer. Saul stepped aside and ushered an ashen-faced Tom Hubbard into the office.

“Mr. Hubbard,” Wolfe said, “we haven’t been introduced. My name is Nero Wolfe, and I think you’ve met Inspector Cramer.” Before either Cramer or Hubbard could speak, Fred Durkin squeezed into the already crowded room with Mindy Ross in tow.

“Everyone is here now,” Wolfe said. “Inspector, this is the young woman I was telling you about earlier. Miss Ross, do you recognize this man?” Wolfe nodded toward Hubbard.

“Yeah, that’s him,” she muttered sullenly, “the one I was telling you about.”

“What did you tell me about him? Please repeat it.”

“He’s the one who... the car. Do I have to—”

“This is perverse!” Hirsch shouted. “Must we sit through this? What’s it proving?”

“Shut up!” Cramer bellowed. “Let her go on.”

“Miss Ross, how did you happen to approach this particular man?” Wolfe asked.

“I got money to go there and talk to him and, you know, take him to a car.”

“Is the person who gave you that money in this room?”

“Yeah, him.” She pointed at Charles Meyerhoff.

“I’m not going to stay here and take this!” Meyerhoff barked, standing up, but Purley Stebbins laid a beefy hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.

“This is a disgrace,” Meyerhoff yelled, “being accused by a whore! I didn’t kill Milan Stevens, and I’m not saying any more.”

“Technically, that’s true,” Wolfe conceded, draining his glass and dabbing his lips with a handkerchief.

“What’re you saying?” Cramer put in. “You heard the girl.”

Wolfe held up a hand. “As I stated earlier, the truth was crying out to me, but I ignored it. First, the same phrase was used by two people at different times. ‘It was just a thing of convenience,’ they each said. Strange that both would use precisely the same words, unless of course they had rehearsed what they would say, anticipating questions. And why would there be questions, other than in an investigation?

“But as I said, I refused to read the sign. Then, through the efforts of an associate in Europe, I learned that Mr. Stevens some fifteen years ago had fired a young man from the Munich orchestra when he was its conductor, and a few days later the musician drove his car off a cliff, killing himself.

“The dead man’s name was Willy Wald, and I ignored yet another sign until Mr. Goodwin by chance used the word ‘translate’ in conversation, waking me from my slumber. My German-English dictionary translates ‘wald’ to ‘woodland’ or ‘forest.’ Mr. Wald was the younger brother of Lucinda Forrester-Moore. Correct, madam?”

Lucinda had a trace of a smile on her face as she looked levelly at Wolfe. “I’d always wanted to meet you,” she said in a low voice. “I’d heard so much about you.”

“Just so. Yesterday afternoon, through friends in the press, I found that you are a German native, having immigrated to the United States in nineteen sixty-four, the year after your brother’s death. You moved to New York, and a few years later married Mr. Moore, taking his name, but also maintaining an English approximation of your own surname.”

“It now appears that was a mistake,” she said, still smiling.

“Perhaps,” Wolfe replied with a shrug, “although my ego wants to believe that I eventually would have found the answer on the duplicated phrase alone. By the way, I congratulate you on losing almost all traces of accent in thirteen years.”

“Thank you,” she said, dipping her head slightly.

“Also, your asking Mr. Goodwin back a second time was a tactical error,” Wolfe said. “You overplayed your hand. It seemed obvious from his report of that meeting that you were trying to muddy the waters by focusing suspicion on Mr. Hirsch, and to a lesser degree Mr. Sommers — perhaps as a contingency in the event that Mr. Milner found a way to prove his innocence.” Wolfe turned to Meyerhoff. “However, sir, you may be interested to know that she did not attempt to throw any suspicion upon you, despite an opening Mr. Goodwin gave her to do so.

“When I confronted Mr. Hirsch with the charge that he had made implied verbal death threats to Milan Stevens, his reaction was such that I all but eliminated him from consideration. Patently, talking in that manner was not his style.”

Wolfe turned to Cramer, who had moved behind Lucinda, while Purley Stebbins remained at Meyerhoffs right shoulder. “I said that I was convinced Stevens’s murder was the result of a deep-seated and intense hatred. And such hatred could indeed have been sparked by the death of a loved one — in this case, a brother.

“Lucinda Forrester left Europe shortly after her brother’s death, bitter and resentful toward Milan Stevens but probably resigned to never having the opportunity for revenge. Imagine how she must have felt, years later, when she learned he was moving to the very city in which she lived. Coincidentally, she as a recent widow had been spending time with another member of the Symphony, Mr. Meyerhoff. However, she shifted her attentions to Mr. Stevens soon after his arrival here. Even then, she probably had begun to lay plans for his murder, although I doubt if she shared those plans with Mr. Meyerhoff at that time, and Mr. Stevens, who likely had never met the sister of Willy Wald in the Munich years, was totally unsuspecting. As for Mr. Meyerhoff, he grew increasingly unhappy over Milan Stevens’s dictatorial ways, which steadily increased his power within the orchestra — at Meyerhoffs expense. Further, the managing director had grown deeply attached to Mrs. Forrester-Moore.

“This combination of emotions on the part of Meyerhoff was perfect for her purposes. She had for months, no doubt, been contemplating a way to avenge her brother’s death, which she had always felt was directly attributable to Stevens. When the maestro and Milner had their public confrontation and word of it got back to her — possibly from Stevens himself — she had an unexpected opportunity. But as plans took form in her mind, she realized the need for an accomplice, and she approached Meyerhoff. You’ll have to ask him whether he initially resisted, but in any event she was able to enlist him and they set to work.

“The notes to Stevens at home were her first step because, as I said earlier, even murder was not sufficient satisfaction for her; she wanted his suffering to be psychological as well. It turned out to be a pivotal decision, because the notes were what in effect brought Mr. Goodwin and me into the case — a case that at the time was not yet a capital one.

“Next, the pair set about studying the security in the building where Stevens lived. This was Mr. Meyerhoffs assignment, and he no doubt soon discovered that the doorman went off duty at seven in the evening, which meant that only one person, the hallman, stood between them and undetected entry. Next, Meyerhoff began inquiring about the habits of the hallman, Mr. Hubbard here. He may well have talked to the same person that Mr. Durkin did to find out that Mr. Hubbard had a certain weakness, one that would be skillfully exploited, as we have seen.” Wolfe leaned back, took a monumental breath, and poured his second bottle of beer as Hubbard stood near the door, looking at the floor and fidgeting.

“It also fell to Mr. Meyerhoff to locate a woman, which he did, specifying a time when she was to call on Mr. Hubbard — a time after the doorman went off duty but safely in advance of Gerald Milner’s arrival. To assure that this part of the operation went smoothly, Meyerhoff accompanied Miss Ross to the door of the apartment building and also supplied the automobile in which she and Mr. Hubbard had their appointment. He probably watched them from a place of concealment, making sure that Hubbard was well occupied while Mrs. Forrester-Moore entered the building.

“After she got inside, the rest was simple. She was familiar with the place, having been there many times to visit Stevens. She took the elevator up and rang the bell, and Stevens, on learning who it was, opened the door. They went back to the library, where he’d been working, and at some point when his back was turned, the former Miss Wald, doubtless wearing gloves, plunged the letter opener into his back. The first stab was enough to stagger him, and it was then easy for her, despite her size, to run the blade in a few more times to finish the job. Miss Radovich said she thought the letter opener was her uncle’s, so it’s possible Mrs. Forrester-Moore took it on an earlier visit to the apartment, with just such a use in mind. Anyway, after killing Stevens, she stayed in the apartment and waited for the call from the lobby announcing Milner. When it came, she probably muttered those few words I mentioned earlier, or a similar phrase. It would have been simple for her, a sometime actress, to approximate Stevens’s voice for just a short sentence. After talking to the hallman on the speaker, she had ample time to flee via the back way while Milner was going up in the elevator.”

Cramer started to say something to Lucinda, but she spoke first: “Mr. Wolfe, I’ve very stupidly underrated you. I really—”

“Lucinda, you don’t have to talk to him!” Meyerhoff shouted. “He’s just fishing. We don’t have to stay here and subject ourselves to this slander!”

“Charles, it’s done,” she said. “Over. Mr. Wolfe, I started to say that despite your reputation, I didn’t really think I was in jeopardy, particularly since you didn’t even take the trouble to see me yourself until tonight; you sent Archie instead. Not that I minded, you understand.” She turned to me with a sad smile, and for just an instant I wished Wolfe had made a mistake. “The only thing you were wrong about was my never having met Milan in Munich. I did meet him once — at my brother’s funeral, but he didn’t recognize me when we became acquainted here years later; my appearance had changed a good deal.” Her hand went reflexively to her hair. “I was glad he didn’t remember me, though, because almost from the beginning, I had made up my mind, as you said, to... take revenge. I’m not sorry I did it, either. But I am sorry about Mr. Milner. And I’m sorry about you, too, Charles,” she said, turning to Meyerhoff, “although your dislike for Milan had grown to be almost as great as mine, I think.”

Lucinda shifted to Maria Radovich. “You despise me, as you should. All I can tell you is your uncle had a side you probably never saw: He could be cold, cruel, hateful. He was that way to my brother — and to other members of the Munich orchestra, too. He killed Willy as surely as if he’d been steering the car. He humiliated him in front of the entire orchestra, called him names, derided him. You can see how he treated someone you cared for very much,” she said, nodding toward Milner. She sank back into her chair and looked at Wolfe.

“Madam, since you mentioned Mr. Goodwin, I should point out that his eyes and ears are every bit the equal of my own, and in some situations, considerably better. Also, I must tell you that your little speech rings hollow, particularly your solicitude toward Miss Radovich. I, too, know that the man you call Milan Stevens had a dark side, and may indeed have been capable of driving another person to his death. Let us even assume he was the direct cause of your brother’s fatal crash.”

Wolfe turned a hand over. “So, powered by revenge, you plotted and carried out his murder. Should that not have been enough for you? Indeed, an argument could be made for this act of retribution in the minds of many self-respecting citizens, if not in the eyes of the law. But you had to go further, conspiring to frame an innocent person. The easy assumption would be that you did this to avoid prosecution. I think not; rather, it was your hatred for Mr. Stevens, which was so overriding that you also sought to savage the life of the person he held dearest, his niece, by destroying the man she loved. And the irony is that this man” — he gestured toward Milner — “is of virtually the same station and age as your brother was at the time of his death. Madam, hatred has become your handmaiden.” Wolfe scowled and turned to Cramer.

“In case you’re wondering, Inspector, you’ll find that neither Mr. Meyerhoff nor Mrs. Forrester-Moore has a strong alibi for last Wednesday night. He said he was working late in his office in Symphony Hall, but claimed the guard didn’t see him when he left. And she was at a dinner party that evening, or at least told Mr. Goodwin she was. But at the time of the murder, she was supposedly in a cab trying to find an open florist shop. However, I suppose you’ll be checking all these things thoroughly.”

Cramer glowered at Wolfe, but didn’t say anything. There really wasn’t a hell of a lot he could say. After all, for the last two hours he and Purley Stebbins had watched their work being done for them.