Murder in E Minor

7

No matter how often I see Wolfe propped up in bed, I’m never quite prepared for the sight. Maybe it’s his bright yellow pajamas, or the silk coverlet, or the uncertainty as to where he ends and the bed begins, but in that setting he always looks larger than usual, which is saying a lot. I got to his room just after eight, right behind Fritz and his tray with orange juice, hot chocolate, peaches with cream, link sausage, shirred eggs, and whole-wheat toast with currant jam. My alarm clock had kicked me out of bed at seven, and after a shave and shower, I went down to the kitchen for a quick breakfast of my own so I could fill Wolfe in before his morning visit to the plants. He forbids business talk in the dining room, but on rare occasions tolerates it with his breakfast.

“Last night was every bit as delightful as I thought it would be,” I said as he started in on the peaches. “Who do you suppose was on duty at Twenty-first Street when I got there?”

“Not Lieutenant Rowcliff?” Wolfe made a face, as he always does when he pronounces the name. He’s never forgiven Rowcliff for the time years ago when he searched the brownstone.

“You got it. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, but then, I’m getting ahead of myself. I assume you want it all?”

Wolfe nodded. That meant a verbatim report on the evening, which was no strain. On past occasions, I’ve repeated hours of word-for-word dialogue to him, and I’d match myself against a tape recorder.

I started with the call to Maria at the dance studio and covered all the rest, right through to Rowcliff’s final rantings and my ride home. Wolfe interrupted three or four times with questions, but otherwise concentrated on his tray. As I finished, he drained the last of his chocolate and scowled. “I suppose the police have Mr. Milner by now. What do the papers say?” He gestured to the copies of the Times and Daily News that Fritz had brought up. I’d read my own copies already.

“There’s nothing about Stevens in these editions,” I said. “They probably got the story too late. But the afternoons figure to play it big, and you can be sure Lon will be calling soon. Ditto the reporters for the other papers and the TV stations. And I’ve got a sawbuck that says Cramer punches our doorbell before noon.”

“Your money is safe,” Wolfe said. “If Mr. Milner is the murderer, Mr. Cramer’s army of men will likely have no trouble establishing it. If that’s the case, we’ll owe Miss Radovich a refund, along with our condolences. Let us for the moment turn our back on the obvious, however. What is your judgment of her?”

“You mean, could she have done it? Absolutely not. Two hundred to one against, at least. She doted on the old man, and besides, she apparently was at the dance studio all afternoon and evening. But that’s one that can be checked easily enough.”

“Very well,” Wolfe said. “I concur that we will almost surely hear from both Mr. Cohen and Mr. Cramer this morning, one with questions, the other with harangues.” He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Is that it?” I asked after a half-minute of silence. “Someone you’ve known for years was killed last night, not more than four miles from here, and I get the feeling that I’m keeping you awake. I’m impressed with the way you’re able to conceal your fury.”

He looked at me with wide eyes. “Archie, outrage is among your more churlish emotions. If I may contradict you, Mr. Stevens is someone I have not known for years. Further — and I realize this is troubling you — I reject summarily any suggestion that Mr. Stevens’s death could have been prevented by our turning those notes over to the police. As you’ve heard me say before, if one person is determined to kill another, it is virtually impossible to prevent the act, short of destroying the potential murderer himself. And whoever dispatched Milan Stevens had in all likelihood made his or her decision long before last night.”

Wolfe then opened the Times, which signaled the end of the discussion. For the second time in two days, I wanted to slam a door behind me, but decided it was wasted energy. I walked down one flight to the office and found my desk covered with messages that Fritz had taken. One was from Lon, of course, and others from the Times, Daily News, Post, and three television stations. I dialed a number, and Lon answered on the first ring.

“All right, Archie, this one’s really got us spinning. What gives with Wolfe and Stevens? Naturally, we haven’t told the police about your wanting those clips, but I suppose I could always call Cramer and...”

“Threats will get you nowhere with a tough gumshoe,” I said. “Besides, you could no more snitch on a friend than you could quit the paper for a job in TV. What’ve you heard about the Stevens thing?”

“What have I heard? Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? Nero Wolfe invites me to dinner, ostensibly for a social evening, although I know better. I get pumped about the Symphony in general and Milan Stevens in particular. Then you come to the paper to see our files on the man and the orchestra, and within twelve hours he’s killed. And for frosting, I have to read in the final edition of this morning’s Daily News that Stevens had known Nero Wolfe a million years ago in Yugoslavia, and that Stevens’s niece had come to you for help regarding some threatening letters he got. And then” — Lon paused for breath — “our leader storms into my office waving the News story and screaming ‘I thought you were supposed to be the one who’s in thick with Wolfe and that sidekick of his, what’s-his-name!’”

“You’re making up the ‘what’s-his-name’ part,” I said, trying to sound offended. “I haven’t seen the News article yet; it wasn’t in the edition we got delivered. But if they quoted Wolfe or me, they made it up.” I pawed through the phone messages on my desk. “Let’s see, the News did call here, at six-fifty this morning, and Fritz answered, but I haven’t returned their call. You’re the only member of the fourth estate that I’ve talked to.”

“No, they didn’t quote you, and apparently they couldn’t get to the niece, either. We think that cretin Rowcliff fed them the stuff about Wolfe, and also said you were there when the body was discovered. Give me something, for God’s sake. We need a strong lead for our street edition, and besides, my image is hurting with the man who signs my paychecks.”

“What does the News say about a suspect?” I asked.

“They’re questioning a guy,” Lon answered. “Named Milner. A violinist with the Symphony. The hallman says he was the last visitor Stevens had before his body was found.”

“Look, I probably can’t give you much more than Rowcliff shoveled to the News,” I said. “You can print the fact that Maria Radovich is our client and that we’re investigating the case. And if you like, I can give you a pretty good description of the apartment and the way it looked when I first saw Stevens lying there. Other than that, there’s not much we can say without an okay from our client. Speaking of which, I’ve got to call her.”

“You probably won’t get through,” Lon said. “One of our guys has been trying to reach her for the last hour, and the line’s busy. Phone’s likely off the hook.”

Lon took down my description of the apartment, and a few other tidbits I felt I could safely toss in, and I promised him I wouldn’t return any other calls from the media for at least an hour.

Lon was right about Maria. I called several times, and the line was always busy. I also kept my word and didn’t talk to reporters who phoned during the next hour. Fritz answered on the kitchen extension and gave them all the same message: I was out, and so was Wolfe. When I finally did get around to calling people back, nobody got more than bare bones from me.

After the flurry of calls both in and out, I had some time to open the mail and work briefly on the germination records, although Fritz ran in every five minutes to pump me about the case or ask if I thought Wolfe was getting enough to eat.

The phone hadn’t rung for a while, and I’d just gotten another busy signal from Maria’s number when I heard the hum of the elevator. At eleven sharp, Wolfe came in with Ondontoglossums for the vase, but because we’d talked earlier, he didn’t bother to ask how I’d slept, which was fine with me — I was still irked about his boredom act upstairs.

After he got settled in his chair and rang for beer, I swiveled to face him. “The late edition of the Daily News has the murder; Rowcliff talked to them, Lon says, and we’re both mentioned. I gave Lon a little color, but just sneezed at the other papers and the television stations. And I’ve been trying to call Maria for the last hour, but the line’s busy.”

Fritz came in with two bottles of beer and a glass on a tray. As he set it down in front of Wolfe, the doorbell rang.

It was eleven-oh-six — I made a point of checking my watch, for the record. Wolfe and I looked at each other, and I went to the door, but I knew before I got there who’d be on the other side of the one-way glass. Still, it was comforting when I actually saw the florid, angry face of one Inspector Lionel T. Cramer of Homicide South.

“Come in, Inspector,” I said, grinning. “Believe it or not, we were talking about you just this morning, trying to recall when you visited us last. Mr. Wolfe and I have both felt terribly neglected...”

I stopped because he ignored me, bolting through to the office with his coat still on. He headed straight for the red leather chair and sat, pulling out a cigar and jamming it unlit into his mouth.

“So help me God, I never thought I’d be in this room again,” he snarled at Wolfe. “I honestly thought I’d seen the last of you and this place.”

“It has been a long time,” Wolfe said. “I seem to recall that on your last visit, you complimented me on what a good working room this is, and you also gave the globe a spin. Will you join me for a beer?”

“No, goddammit, I won’t,” Cramer said, glancing at the big Gouchard globe in the corner. He looked about the same as the last time I’d seen him a couple of years before, his hair just as gray and rumpled and maybe with another inch added to an already thick midsection. But he still moved fast for a big man and his eyes hadn’t lost any of their sharpness. Despite all their battles through the years, he and Wolfe held a grudging respect for each other.

“Mr. Cramer represents the best of the law officer,” Wolfe once told me in a rare burst of praise. “It’s true that he’s impulsive and has a quick temper, but beyond that — and more important — he’s honest to a fault, brave, dedicated, and fiercely proud of the New York Police Department. He hates malingerers and incompetents within its ranks and lives with the constant fear that he may someday be responsible for the conviction of an innocent person.” Enough of praise. Right now, Cramer was exhibiting the temper segment of his personality.

“You know why I’ve come,” he snarled at Wolfe, chewing on his stogie. “I should have known better than to believe that you and Goodwin had really hung it up. It’s been too peaceful the last year or two, and now we’ve got one of the biggest murders in this town’s history, and I’m back here again.

“I really thought the Cather thing finished you,” Cramer went on, leaning forward in his chair. “I never asked you how it felt to have a killer working for—”

“Mr. Cramer!” Wolfe spat the words out and brought the palm of his hand down hard on the desk, causing both Cramer and me to jump. “Have I ever taken you to task for the malfeasants who have been employed by the police — some of them in Homicide? Did I ask you how it felt when one of your own lieutenants murdered his wife and children and then shot himself to death? Archie” — he turned to me — “how many operatives have we employed through the years?”

“Four or five, on any regular basis, and another fifteen or twenty on occasions, I suppose. I could look it up.”

Wolfe shook his head. “These men, with the single exception of Mr. Cather, consistently conducted themselves with an admirable degree of honor, dignity, and courage, and one was himself killed while in my employ,” Wolfe said. He was referring to Johnny Keems, who was run down by a car on a case years ago. “Am I now to be held accountable for the actions of one among all those I have paid through the years? Really, Mr. Cramer.” Wolfe was laying it on thick.

“Okay, don’t get so testy,” Cramer said, his face beet red. “That’s ancient history anyway. What I’m really here about — and you know it — is the Milan Stevens murder.”

“We were expecting you,” Wolfe said. “And you have our attention.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad of that,” Cramer said. “You know that I could lift your licenses again for the withholding of evidence from the police. I’ve come for those notes. If you’d turned them over to us right away instead of playing cute, Stevens would still be alive.”

“Come now, Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe said, turning a palm over. “Let us assume for a moment that we had given you those notes after Miss Radovich had left them with me. Can you honestly say they would have caused you to begin a full-scale search for a potential murderer? Or, as I suspect is more likely, would you have dismissed them as the work of a crackpot? And even if you had undertaken a hunt, where would it have ended?”

“At the same place we are now,” said Cramer. “With Gerald Milner in custody.”

“Indeed?” said Wolfe, raising his eyebrows. “Has Mr. Milner been charged with murder?”

“You know damn well he has,” Cramer said, almost shouting. “We picked him up early this morning.”

“Has he confessed?” Wolfe asked.

“No, but he’s rattled to the point where I think he’ll crack sometime today. The hallman in Stevens’s building saw him go up, and we found his prints in the apartment. No question, he’s it. Now, those notes.”

“Certainly. Archie, please get them from the safe and give them to Mr. Cramer. Well, it appears that your case is over very quickly, and I congratulate you. Have you established a motive?”

“Hell, yes,” Cramer said as I handed him an envelope with the notes in it. “We’ve already talked to several orchestra members who heard Stevens screaming at Milner after a rehearsal several weeks ago. It seems that Milner wanted to marry Stevens’s niece, but when the old man found out about it, he was furious, didn’t think Milner was worthy of her. After that, he singled Milner out during rehearsals, chewing him out, and trying to make him look bad in front of everyone.”

“And what does Mr. Milner say about last night?” Wolfe asked.

“He claims Stevens wrote him a note asking him to come to his apartment. Milner says he thought it was to talk about Maria. When he got off the elevator, or so he says, the door to the apartment was open. He called out Stevens’s name, and when there was no answer, he went in and found Stevens lying dead on the floor in the library.

“He claims he panicked,” Cramer said. “His story is that he ran out, not bothering to close the door, and walked the streets for hours, trying to decide what to do. Our men were at his apartment in Queens waiting for him when he got there at about one-thirty.”

Wolfe nodded. “They probably brought him in while Lieutenant Rowcliff was still questioning Mr. Goodwin.”

Cramer spat an obscenity. “And he wonders why he hasn’t made captain. One of the biggest names in town is murdered, and that idiot decides to handle it all by himself. Not that Goodwin doesn’t deserve a two-hour grilling, and more, but the time Rowcliff wasted on him, when he should have been... Aw, the hell with it. Quote me, and I’ll deny I ever said any of that. Anyway, I’m glad this one’s going to be over quick. The heat would’ve been murder, with the mayor kicking the commissioner, the commissioner kicking everybody in the department, and the papers going nuts over it.”

“Again, I congratulate you,” Wolfe said.

“Yeah, thanks. No great help to you, though. Maybe this really will be my last time in this office.” Cramer stood up and looked around.

“I honestly hope not,” Wolfe said. “I always enjoy your visits.”

“That’s more than I can say,” Cramer answered. “Well...” He was staring at the globe, probably deciding whether to spin it again. After a few seconds he shrugged and walked out, the cigar still clenched in his teeth. I followed him to the hall, but he was out the front door before I could open it for him.

“Well?” I said to Wolfe back in the office.

“Mr. Cramer wants very badly to believe he has the murderer,” he said, “but he’s troubled. And he’s far too honest to take the easy way out by sacrificing an innocent person, merely to avoid pressure from his superiors.”

“The notes,” I said.

“Of course.” Wolfe nodded. “They complicate the situation, and Mr. Cramer obviously realizes this. Why would the murderer, be it Mr. Milner or someone else, alert his intended victim with a warning?”

“Maybe they were sent by someone else,” I ventured. “A coincidence. Stevens apparently had plenty of detractors.”

“Pah!” Wolfe waved my suggestion aside. “Without question the same person who wrote the notes also is the murderer. Could you conceive of doing such a thing yourself, if you were planning to destroy someone?”

“Nope,” I said. “Too much effort, and as you said, all it does is make the target more careful.”

“Your reaction is normal,” Wolfe said, laying a hand palm down on his blotter, “and it would be mine as well. But whoever killed Milan Stevens detested him so intensely that the notes were used as additional means of inflicting discomfort. And the murderer was so confident of ultimate success that he — or she — felt this extra measure of sadistic satisfaction outweighed any dangers.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Try again to get Miss Radovich.”

I turned to dial the number while Wolfe picked up his receiver. This time I got rings instead of a busy signal, and a female voice I didn’t recognize answered.

“I’m sorry, but Miss Radovich is resting right now and can’t be disturbed,” she said.

“Can you please tell her it’s Mr. Goodwin?”

“Really, she isn’t—”

“Please, at least tell her and let her decide for herself.”

The woman left the phone. After about a minute, Maria was on the line. “I know you’ve been through hell in the last twelve hours,” I said, “but Mr. Wolfe is anxious to see you. Can you come this afternoon?”

“Yes — I was going to call you. I took sleeping pills, and just now got up. I want badly to see you and talk about Jerry. What time should I come?” she asked in a fuzzy voice.

“Three?” I asked. It was as much a question to Wolfe as to Maria. He nodded, and she said she’d be there. I hung up and turned to say something to him, but his nose was in a book, where it would stay until Fritz announced lunch.