Murder in E Minor

8

After finishing lunch, I walked over to Eighth Avenue and picked up the afternoon papers. Both the Gazette and the Post played the murder as the banner, and each had a big picture of Stevens on the front page. The Gazette story jumped inside to a page that also had articles on Stevens’s career and violence in New York today. There was a mention of Wolfe’s role and pictures of both of us. Most of what I’d fed to Lon was in the main story, along with a diagram of the library, showing the position of Stevens’s body when we found it. Maria wasn’t quoted anywhere, though — the story said she was “in seclusion.”

No mention was made of Gerald Milner in either paper, but each said the police commissioner and the district attorney had scheduled a joint press conference for three o’clock “to announce a major development in the case.” In the meantime, citizens’ groups were making noise, and the head of one had asked in print: “What kind of city is this that not even one of its most prominent and highly respected residents is safe in his own home?” The mayor called the murder “a terrible, senseless tragedy,” but said he had complete confidence that the police would move with dispatch to find the murderer.

Wolfe was at his desk reading when I got back. “It’s all over the papers now,” I said, laying them in front of him. “By the way, I think we need to give out new pictures to the press. Yours doesn’t do justice to your graying temples. Mine on the other hand makes me look older than I really—”

“Archie, shut up!”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, the commissioner and the D.A. have called a press conference for three — the same time Maria will be here. It’s sure to be on Milner, after what Cramer told us. Shall I get Lon and ask him to call us when his reporter phones in with the story?”

Wolfe nodded as he opened the papers and began reading. Like almost everyone else, he likes to see his name in print, and he turned quickly to the page with our pictures. He read for a minute, then looked up. “Assuming Mr. Milner is to be charged with murder, will a bail be set?”

“Probably,” I answered, “although it’s likely to be a big one.”

I had expected Maria to be early, so when the doorbell rang at seven minutes to three, I wasn’t surprised. Through the one-way glass, I could see she was alone and wearing sunglasses, despite the overcast day. I opened the door, gave her a sympathetic smile, and helped her off with her coat.

I won’t say Wolfe never rises for a woman, but it doesn’t happen often. That day, though, he was on his feet when Maria entered the office and remained standing until I had parked her in the red leather chair.

“You have our most sincere sympathies,” he said. “I can’t speak to your uncle’s musical prowess, as I have no frame of reference, but I can say that he was a man of dedication, character, and great bravery, and I do not use those words carelessly.”

“Thank you,” Maria said hoarsely. She kept her sunglasses on.

“It goes without saying,” he continued, “that we all, you, me, Mr. Goodwin, want the same thing — the arrest and conviction of your uncle’s killer, whoever that may be. Before we go on, however, one point: Inspector Cramer of Homicide was here earlier, and he suggested that Mr. Goodwin and I were at least indirectly responsible for your uncle’s death because we did not immediately turn those notes over to the police. Do you agree?”

“No — not at all,” Maria said, leaning forward in the chair. “Even if we had gone against his wishes and taken the notes to the police, Uncle Milos wouldn’t have cooperated. He would have said the whole thing was nonsense.”

“I gathered as much from what you said on your earlier visit,” Wolfe said, “but I wanted to establish your confidence in both of us.”

“Absolutely,” Maria said. “When I first came here, I wanted to find out who was writing the notes. This time, I want you to find a murderer, and I suppose now... I’ll be able to afford whatever fee you ask.” She looked down at her hands in her lap and shrugged. “But I know it can’t be Jerry. I’m positive. He’s just not...” The words trailed off.

“Madam,” Wolfe said, “first, do not concern yourself about payment. As I said on your earlier visit, I have a debt of considerable magnitude to your late uncle. Second, when I undertake an investigation, there can be no constraints, no limitations. It may be that Mr. Milner is guilty. If so—”

“No!” Maria said. “Violence is not in his nature.”

“Throughout history, passion has driven otherwise gentle individuals to extreme acts of violence,” Wolfe remarked dryly. “I’m merely trying to establish that however unpleasant the truth may be to you, all pertinent information must eventually reach the police. But because we’re now on the subject of Mr. Milner and because the police consider him a prime suspect, I have questions.”

Maria nodded.

“When you first sat in that chair, it was obvious that your concern over the notes centered at least partially on who had written them. Did you fear Mr. Milner was their author?”

“Mr. Wolfe, I was worried about my uncle.” Maria took off the sunglasses and shifted in the big chair. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“And with good reason, as it turned out,” Wolfe said. “Madam, we must be candid with each other. I know that your uncle and Mr. Milner had argued. Am I correct that you were the cause?”

“Yes. I met Jerry several months ago while I was waiting for my uncle at Symphony Hall. We started seeing each other after that, and...” She gestured as if to explain.

“Was your uncle aware of this friendship?” Wolfe asked.

“No. Uncle Milos never approved of anybody I went out with. And he told me once that musicians made terrible husbands. For a long time — several months — we met secretly. But” — again Maria gestured — “we fell in love, and Jerry said he wanted to marry me.”

“Your response?” Wolfe asked.

“I told him I wanted to marry him, too, but I was afraid of what my uncle would say. Jerry said he would talk to him about it, but I told him I was sure Uncle Milos would be furious and that it might hurt Jerry’s career with the orchestra.”

“But he spoke to your uncle anyway?”

“Yes, about three weeks ago, and it was just as I had expected. I wasn’t there, but Jerry told me later that after a rehearsal, he followed my uncle back to his dressing room, and on the way he told him about us. Uncle Milos became terribly angry, and he shouted at Jerry, right there in the hallway backstage, where a lot of other people heard it.”

“When did you first learn about the incident?” Wolfe asked.

“Jerry called me right after it happened. He said Uncle Milos threatened to dismiss him from the Symphony, and told him that they could easily do without him. Jerry was very upset when he called me. He said he was willing to leave the orchestra if it came to that, but he was still determined we should marry, whether or not my uncle gave his blessing. I told him he shouldn’t do anything to endanger his career, that I would talk to my uncle and see if I could reason with him.

“Uncle Milos came home a little while later, but before I could even begin, he said, ‘I don’t want you to see that Milner again; how could you be interested in such a man? He is beneath you, and he’s only an adequate musician, as well!’ He told me he believed the only reason Jerry was interested in me was that he thought it would improve his position in the orchestra. I said I thought the very opposite was true, that Jerry knew his feelings about me might very well damage him. But Uncle Milos wouldn’t discuss it anymore.”

“Did you pursue the subject later?” Wolfe asked.

“I tried several times in the next few days, but always he refused to talk about Jerry at all. He would walk out of the room when I tried to bring it up.”

The telephone rang, and I turned to answer. It was Lon.

“Archie, our guy called from Centre Street a couple minutes ago, and it was like we figured. They’ve charged Milner with murder. The commissioner and the D.A. spent most of the press conference congratulating each other on the fast work, et cetera. They set bond at a quarter-million. I gotta run.”

“Thank you very much,” I said in a businesslike voice, hanging up and turning back to Wolfe. “That was Mr. Wilson. He called to confirm the details of our earlier discussion and to say the price is two-five-oh.”

Wolfe nodded and addressed Maria. “Madam, I will repeat the question I asked earlier and which you sidestepped: When you first talked to us about the notes, did you not fear that they had been written by Mr. Milner?”

She took a deep breath. “I... suppose so. Jerry was so depressed about what had happened that I was afraid he might have done something foolish, just to scare my uncle. But he could never have killed anyone. He—”

“Yes, I know,” Wolfe said. “You need not further stress your feelings about Mr. Milner. Did you ever mention the notes to him?”

“No,” Maria said. “I saw no reason to... upset him further.”

“I will repeat another question I asked on your earlier visit: Was there anyone in the Symphony who might have wanted your uncle dead?”

“I can’t think of anyone. I said before, there are tensions and jealousies, but they always seem to exist in great orchestras. But any murderous hatred — no, not that I was aware of.”

Wolfe pursed his lips. “Miss Radovich, were you and your uncle satisfied with your apartment building?”

“He was never very interested in where we lived,” Maria said. “When we first came to New York, we stayed for several months in a hotel on Central Park South that is popular with music people. It wasn’t a bad place, but Uncle Milos wanted something larger, so we found this building. He bought the apartment right away after we’d seen it. I didn’t think it was as nice as we should have had — on his earnings, he could have afforded much better. But it satisfied him. Mr. Remmers tried to convince him to move into a bigger, more expensive building. He said the conductor of the New York Symphony merited something better, but my uncle is — was — very stubborn. And he was very much taken with the library in this apartment. He said it was a nice place to work. And then that’s where...” Maria stopped and looked down, resting her head on one hand.

“Did you find the security adequate?” Wolfe asked.

Maria nodded. “I suppose so, although again, Mr. Remmers said we should be in a building with better protection. But there was always a hallman on duty, and in the daytime, a doorman too.”

“Is someone in your apartment during the day?”

“We have a maid who comes Mondays through Fridays, from about ten in the morning until three,” Maria said.

“Do you have a cook as well?” Wolfe asked.

“No, we usually eat out, although sometimes I make something for the two of us.”

Wolfe grimaced. The thought of anyone not having a cook always disturbs him. “I have another appointment,” he said, glancing at the wall clock, “but before we conclude, you should know that Mr. Milner has been charged with murder.”

Maria stiffened, but otherwise showed little emotion; the last two days had probably sucked most of the emotion out of her, and she looked to be on the ragged edge. “I must see him — I haven’t talked to him since... since before it happened.” She turned to me and back to Wolfe again.

“I plan to post bond for Mr. Milner,” Wolfe said. “You will be able to see him then. However, it is also imperative that I see him — here. Will I need your help to convince him to come?”

“Jerry will do anything I ask of him,” Maria said.

“Good,” Wolfe said. “One more question before you leave: Would you have married Mr. Milner against your uncle’s wishes?”

Maria looked steadily at Wolfe. “I was prepared for once to defy Uncle Milos,” she said.

“Very well. Mr. Goodwin and I will keep you apprised of developments.” For the second time that afternoon, Wolfe rose in a woman’s presence.

“I’ll get you a cab,” I said as I helped her on with her coat in the hall. “Is anyone staying with you?”

Maria said no. “Some friends have asked me to move in with them for a few days, but... I haven’t really wanted to be around anybody.”

“You shouldn’t be in that place alone. I know a woman with a large apartment, and she’d be glad to have you stay with her for a while. She’s in and out a lot, and you’d have plenty of privacy.”

Maria balked, but I persuaded her that she’d be happier away from the murder scene. “I’ll stop back there with you later, and you can pick up some clothes,” I said as I put her in a cab and gave her Lily Rowan’s name and address. When I got back inside, Wolfe was standing in the hall.

“Call Mr. Parker,” he said. “Tell him to get Mr. Milner out of jail as soon as possible. I want him here tonight, after dinner. Draw the necessary amount from the bank for bail.” Having fulfilled his role as resident order-giver, he rode the elevator up for his two-hour afternoon commune with the orchids, leaving me with the mundane responsibility of carrying out those orders.