Murder in E Minor

4

The three of us sat in the office with coffee and brandy, Wolfe and I at our desks and Lon in the red leather chair. Fritz had made good on his promise of a meal to remember: the beef tournedos had never been so good, and the blueberry tart got passed around the table twice. Dinner conversation had ranged from the role of the Palestinians in the Middle East to the future of American cities and the effectiveness of wage-price controls.

Lon passed a hand over his dark slicked-back hair and smiled. “As usual, I’ve had a splendid evening here, and if anything, the brandy has improved since the last time I had the honor of sampling it. But I know you well enough to realize this isn’t strictly social. And tonight, I’m even more curious than in the past, because of your recent... inactivity.”

“Mr. Cohen, we’ve been able to help each other on numerous occasions,” Wolfe said between sips of coffee. “I’ll repeat a question I’ve asked before: On balance, are we substantially even?”

Lon threw up a hand and laughed. “No complaints. None. As I’ve said in the past, I’m running ahead on the deal. If I’ve got an answer that can help in any way, it’s yours.”

Wolfe nodded. “For reasons I can’t divulge now — and which indeed I may never be able to reveal — I need information on the operations and personnel of the New York Symphony Orchestra. Based on my experience with the scope of your knowledge on a variety of subjects, I’m confident you can supply this information.”

Lon grinned and took another sip of Remisier. He was being flattered, none too subtly, by the best, and fattest, detective in New York and probably the world, and he didn’t mind it a bit.

“I didn’t realize you had an interest in orchestral music,” he said, scratching his chin. “Well, I guess I know a fair amount about what goes on over at Symphony Hall. And if I don’t, we’ve got a music critic with more pipelines than OPEC. Shoot.”

Wolfe rang for beer and readjusted himself. “From what little I’ve learned about the orchestra, it appears that some tensions exist among its principals, both the performers and the management. Do you know this to be the case?”

“That’s a delicate way of putting it,” Lon said. “The truth is that the Symphony’s been a jungle for several years. There was a string of weak music directors, none of them able to control the orchestra. Then they brought this guy Stevens over from England a couple years ago, and he has a reputation as one tough cookie. But if anything, the situation seems to have gotten worse.”

“Is all the bickering a manifestation of artistic temperaments?” Wolfe asked. He had never thought much of highbrow music or the people who made it.

“That’s part of it of course,” Lon said. “But there’s a lot more. For one thing, Charlie Meyerhoff, the managing director, has always resented Jason Remmers — feels he’s a dilettante with no real knowledge of music who has his position simply because of wealth and social power.”

“Mr. Remmers is the Symphony’s board chairman, I believe?”

“Right, he’s from the old beer family — that beer,” Lon said, pointing to the bottles on Wolfe’s desk. “Only he’s never been much interested in the beer business, which disappointed his father. Henry Remmers must be close to eighty now, and still has active control of the firm. But Jason, who’s about fifty, married society, and his wife has always been big for the arts. She’s been in her glory the last few years. Actually, Jason’s done a pretty fair job as chairman. It’s a nonpaying post, and a big part of the role is fund-raising. He’s an outgoing guy, damn popular around town, and he seems to know how to coax money out of the mattresses, because the orchestra’s deficit has been cut way down.”

“And he is also responsible for Mr. Stevens’s move from London?” Wolfe asked.

“Absolutely. As I said, Stevens has a reputation for being tough, a real hard-nose. The Symphony had suffered from a lack of leadership and discipline, or so our music critic felt compelled to write every other Sunday.”

“But Mr. Stevens hasn’t been the answer?” Wolfe asked.

“Not really,” Lon said, pausing for another sip of brandy. “I don’t follow the Symphony like I do the Knicks, but I know there’s been plenty of offstage backbiting. Both Meyerhoff and David Hirsch, the associate conductor, have been plenty open about their feelings concerning Stevens. They apparently feel — again, this is our music critic talking — that his Prussian approach hasn’t worked. Oh, the orchestra has more discipline now, but at the expense of spirit. They’re all so damned terrified of Stevens, or so the story goes, that the quality of the playing has fallen off. Now, I’ll concede that Meyerhoff and Hirsch both have a hatchet they want to hone: Meyerhoff resents Remmers, and so probably would have criticized anyone he picked. And Hirsch wanted the job himself, from what I’ve heard, but doesn’t have the ability to handle it.”

“Is this manner of tension and infighting usual in an orchestra?” Wolfe asked as I refilled Lon’s snifter and my own.

“I suppose so, to a degree,” Lon answered. “Hirsch didn’t get along with the last music director either, and what little I know about Meyerhoff tells me he’s not exactly Mr. Sunshine. That artistic temperament you mention is justification for all kinds of behavior in the theater and music world. But the fact remains that Stevens, whatever his musical abilities, has not pulled the orchestra together the way Remmers hoped he would.”

Wolfe made a face, probably envisioning wild-eyed musicians swearing at one another and throwing tantrums. He continued questioning Lon, asking about the personnel and mechanics and operation of the Symphony. Lon will always say he doesn’t know much about a given subject, but invariably he turns out to be a two-legged encyclopedia on any topic you throw out. The Lon Cohen I know best seems most at home holding a pair and betting the pot, and his knowledge of the orchestra surprised even me. I could see that Wolfe was careful not to appear overly interested in Stevens, but he kept circling back to him.

Finally, at a quarter to one, Lon stretched his arms and allowed as how he had to be bright-eyed for an early-morning meeting with the publisher. “I’d kill to know what you’re up to,” he said, grinning at Wolfe, “but I know you aren’t going to open up, so I’ll just hope for the first call if something breaks. And if nothing does, I’ve still had the kind of evening that makes me forget we’re in the midst of one of the most violent cities in the world.” Lon lifted his empty glass to Wolfe and rose.

“Mr. Cohen, I appreciate your patience, and I thank you for dining with us,” Wolfe said. “One more favor, if you will: Can Mr. Goodwin get access to your back files on the orchestra?”

“Consider it done,” Lon said. “Archie, call before you come, and I’ll clear it with our morgue.” I went with Lon to the door, saw him out, and bolted it for the night, returning to the office, where Wolfe was reclining in his chair, eyes closed and fingers interlaced over his stomach.

“Okay,” I said, returning to my desk, “I retract several recent comments; you really do still know how to work. But where are we? What have we got? All we really know is—”

“Archie!” It was well short of a bellow, but it stopped me. “Your notebook. Instructions.”