Murder in E Minor

3

Maria was ten minutes early, and she looked as frightened as she had that morning. She’d changed and was wearing a soft Angora peaches-and-cream-colored number, one of those dresses that seems equally appropriate for daytime wear or for dinner and dancing. I wanted to put my arms around her, but I sat her in the red leather chair instead, and once again arranged the three notes to Stefanovic on Wolfe’s desk blotter. Even geniuses need reference material.

Wolfe was in the kitchen with Fritz conferring on dinner: beef tournedos with sauce béarnaise, squash with sour cream and dill, celery-and-cantaloupe salad, and blueberry tart. When I told him Maria had arrived, he grimaced. The idea of having a woman in the house revolts him, and it’s all the worse if her presence means he’ll have to go to work. I went back to the office, and two minutes later he walked in, detoured around Maria, and dipped his head an eighth of an inch before sitting. That’s his version of a bow.

“Madam,” he said, “Mr. Goodwin has informed me of your earlier visit. He also told you, correctly, that I am no longer actively practicing as a private investigator. But your uncle — if indeed he is that — is an individual to whom I owe an incalculable debt. That debt alone is sufficient reason for my seeing you.

“Let me forewarn you, however,” he said, waggling a finger at her, “that this discussion is not tantamount to a contract.”

Maria nodded slowly, but she was frowning. “Mr. Wolfe, you said ‘if indeed he is that.’ Do you question that I am the niece of—”

Wolfe cut her off, but I can’t report what he said because it was in Serbo-Croatian, of which I know maybe fifteen words. He spoke what sounded like two or three sentences, and Maria responded in the same tongue. They went back and forth for about a minute. Then Wolfe nodded and turned to me. “Archie, I asked Miss Radovich several questions that only someone close to Milos Stefanovic could have answered. I am satisfied with her replies. If you want the substance of our conversation, I’ll supply it later.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ve been secretly studying Serbo-Croatian on records up in my room for the last eight years, and I’ve taken down everything you said in shorthand.”

Wolfe glared at me and turned back to Maria. “I understand from Mr. Goodwin that your uncle is unaware of your visit. Also, he apparently wants to avoid any revelation of these notes?”

Maria nodded. “Uncle Milos became extremely upset when I suggested he go to the police.”

Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Radovich, who sent these to your uncle?”

“Well, I... if I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you. That’s what I was hoping you would find out.”

“Come now,” Wolfe said, leaning forward. “Surely you don’t take Mr. Goodwin and me for lackwits. You must have some suspicion — a strong one — about who is harassing your uncle. And you want us to either confirm or reject that suspicion. That is why you’re here.”

“I am here because I want to know who sent those notes, and I want to know how serious the threats in them are to my uncle,” Maria answered evenly, returning Wolfe’s gaze without blinking. Her fright seemed to have evaporated, although her hands were still clenched tightly in her lap.

Wolfe’s shoulders rose and fell a fraction of an inch. “Very well. You told Mr. Goodwin that your uncle had enemies within the orchestra. Let us proceed in that direction.”

“I also told Mr. Goodwin that it is not unusual for the conductor of a major orchestra to find strong opposition. Name a famous conductor, and almost surely he has encountered difficulties.”

“But mortal difficulties?” Wolfe said, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t know enough, or care enough, about symphony orchestras to be able to name their conductors, but I can’t recall ever hearing of threats on one’s life, and mortal threats are implied in these notes. Madam, I cannot fire without powder. Surely you can suggest someone who would benefit from your uncle’s departure from the orchestra.” He turned a palm over. “A past grudge? A slight? Jealousy? Disagreement over artistic competence?”

“I just can’t believe that anyone connected with the Symphony would—”

“You felt these notes warranted a visit to me. Now you have my attention. You seek aid; we can give none without your full cooperation. If you choose to deflect my questions, it is fruitless to continue.”

Maria winced. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re right.” She paused, picking her way. “When my uncle was chosen to be the Symphony’s music director, the decision was not popular with everyone. But Jason Remmers — the board chairman of the Symphony — insisted on hiring Uncle Milos. He had talked to him several times in London, and was very persuasive in getting him to move to this country.”

“Remmers — of the beer family?” Wolfe asked.

“I’m not sure, but I think perhaps that is right,” Maria said.

Wolfe nodded. Remmers is his brand, and has been almost as long as I’ve known him, which means he’s probably consumed a freight-train full at his rate of intake. He used the opportunity to finish the first of two bottles Fritz had brought in. “Who opposed Mr. Remmers’s choice?” he asked as he poured the other bottle into his glass.

“Mr. Meyerhoff, the orchestra’s managing director, was against Uncle Milos from the start. He felt, or so I’ve heard, that my uncle is too strict, too demanding.”

“And too difficult to get along with?” Wolfe purred.

“Yes, that too. You knew my uncle, Mr. Wolfe; he is a perfectionist. He will not accept anything less than the maximum efforts from his musicians. If he is demanding, it is because he wants the finest possible performance. Mr. Remmers was aware of that when he came to London. Uncle Milos had a reputation there as a firm leader, and the Symphony needed someone firm. But Mr. Meyerhoff and Mr. Hirsch were hostile to him from the start.”

“Mr. Hirsch?” Wolfe asked.

“David Hirsch, the associate conductor of the orchestra,” Maria said.

“Was Mr. Hirsch associate conductor when Milos Stefanovic joined the orchestra?” Wolfe asked.

“Yes, and that is part of the problem. He is said to have wanted the conductor’s job for himself at the time. From the day my uncle arrived in New York, they have had what you would call strained relations, although Mr. Hirsch has always been very pleasant to me. And so has Mr. Meyerhoff, for that matter.”

“Have any other members of the orchestra or staff feuded with your uncle?” Wolfe asked.

Maria paused for several seconds before shaking her head. “No... other than perhaps the usual resentment of musicians toward a strict conductor. At least none that I’ve heard of.”

“Miss Radovich, does your uncle have close friends in New York? Persons he sees socially?

Another pause. “Uncle Milos has never made friends easily. He likes to be alone. But there is one woman...” She came down hard on the last word.

“Yes?” Wolfe prodded.

Maria pursed her lips. “She and Uncle Milos go to the theater often, and to parties. She has him for dinner, and sometimes she comes to our apartment after concerts for a drink or late supper.”

“Her name?”

“Lucinda Forrester-Moore. She’s a widow, and well-known in society. Her picture is in the newspapers a lot.”

No argument there. Lucinda Forrester-Moore’s name seemed to pop up in at least one of the columns every few days, and she was a favorite subject for the photographers, too. The Gazette picture file on her was probably bulging. Lily Rowan had introduced us a couple of years back, I think at Rusterman’s restaurant, and while she has a few too many years on her for my taste, I have to admit that for an older model, she still looks to be in good running condition. Uncle Milos was doing all right.

“Is your uncle’s relationship with this woman a romantic one?” Wolfe asked.

“I wish I could say no,” Maria answered. “But I think he is... very interested. And she is a hunter.” She hit the arm of the chair with a fist. “She has always chased famous men — she is known for it. But Uncle Milos can’t see that. I’ve tried to tell him—”

“Is this relationship approaching marriage, Miss Radovich?” Wolfe asked.

“Lord, I hope not!” I jumped at the intensity of her answer, and I think it scared Maria herself. She blushed becomingly and cleared her throat before going on. “Uncle Milos has said several times through the years that he has no interest in getting married again.”

“Mr. Goodwin mentioned to me that your uncle had been married once years ago,” Wolfe said. “Is his former wife alive?”

“Yes. She is a lovely and gracious woman, Mr. Wolfe. She and Uncle Milos were divorced before I was born, and she moved to London.”

“Who is she?” Wolfe asked.

“Her name is Alexandra Adjari. I met her for the first time when Uncle Milos and I settled in London and he took the conducting job there. They were not on friendly terms, but she wanted to get to know me.”

“She’s back to her maiden name,” Wolfe said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, she never remarried. I think she had money of her own, from before she knew Uncle Milos. She has a large flat in Mayfair.”

“Just so,” said Wolfe. “Have you communicated with her recently?”

“We write at Christmas, but that’s all, and I haven’t seen her since Uncle Milos and I moved here from London,” Maria said.

Wolfe started in on the orchestra again; I’d forgotten how good his technique was when he felt like working, and this was the closest he’d come to working in a long time. He chatted with Maria about orchestras in general, then gradually worked his way to individuals before retreating to generalities again. He repeated this over and over, and I filled at least two dozen notebook pages with the conversation, but these samples will give you the flavor of the entire session:

And so it went. In all, Wolfe kept at it for almost an hour, and each time he asked her about specific relationships, she tightened up. I could tell when he began to lose interest. The questions got sillier, including one about what kind of clothes women orchestra members wear. About the time I was totally exasperated with him, Wolfe shifted in his chair and said, “Miss Radovich, I have another engagement; Mr. Goodwin knows how to reach you, I believe?”

Maria looked puzzled, nodded, then got up and thanked both of us. Wolfe remained seated as I followed her to the front hall, helped her on with her coat, and assured her I would call her no later than tomorrow.

“But I don’t understand; is Mr. Wolfe going to help or not?” she asked.

“I’ve known him for years, but I don’t understand him either, Miss Radovich. It’s hell living in the same house with someone who thinks he’s an eccentric genius. All I can promise is that I’ll call by tomorrow with some kind of news.” I opened the door for her and watched her walk down our front steps for the second time that day. When I got back to the office, Wolfe was scowling.

“She’s withholding something, of course,” he said.

I nodded. “She was too slow in answering a few times.”

“She’s trying to protect someone,” he said. “Someone she thinks might have written those notes. But she doesn’t want to believe it.”

“No argument here,” I said.

“Your impression?” Wolfe asked. Over the years, he has convinced himself that I’m an expert on women, and I’ve tried my best to maintain the image. “Seems responsible and levelheaded, despite the nervousness,” I said. “And certainly attractive. She probably has a man. I thought you would get into that a little more with her, but maybe you’ve lost your touch. Could be she’s having an affair with someone in the orchestra, which raises all sorts of interesting possibilities.”

Wolfe winced. “Talk to her. Take her dancing. Find out whom she’s shielding.” Having shown he was still capable of giving a direct order, he lifted his bulk out of the chair and headed for the elevator and his afternoon appointment with the orchids.